


Cult of Personality

by zelempa



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelempa/pseuds/zelempa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sound of his own hoarse voice was surprising. It was probably no louder than a whisper, but it sounded like a shout against a background of nothing. At least he knew he wasn't deaf.</p><p>He rolled his tongue over his swollen lip. Wherever he was, he hadn't been here long. His mouth was still bleeding.</p><p>He was beginning to regret, now, that the last words he'd formed with that mouth had been, "You want to help me, Sandburg, leave me the fuck alone!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cult of Personality

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Alynt

  


Nothing. There was nothing.

Jim thought he was blinking but he couldn't be sure. If he was opening his eyes, the world was as black and blank as the backs of his eyelids. His entire body was numb. He thought he could hear himself blink, but possibly his brain was just inventing something, anything, to fill the deafening silence. Silence. What a novelty. Maybe he was dead.

Or maybe he had lost his senses completely. It was possible. He'd been blind once, after all. Then, he'd used his other senses to compensate. He'd always wondered what would happen if he lost all of them all at once. How would he know what was happening? He could be anywhere right now. The loft. The station. The middle of the street. Blair could be shaking him right now, shouting, "Jim, Jim, snap out of it," and he'd never know.

He could feel his heart kick into high gear as he began to panic, so he was pretty sure he wasn't dead. Dead men don't panic. They don't think at all. "I think, therefore I am," right? But how do you know for sure? Was this really the time to be having a metaphysical crisis? Oh, God, he was starting to sound like Blair, even in his head. He could practically hear him saying it: "I'm having a metaphysical crisis, here, man! I'm freaking out!"

The thought brought a smile to his lips. Then he felt a sudden, sharp pain all along the side of his face, and tasted an intense, tinny tang. So, not dead then, not yet.

He realized he was cold. He was lying down, and his arms and legs felt leaden. He tried to move but his body didn't seem to want to respond. He tested his range of motion: blinked twice, twitched a finger, opened and closed his parched lips, groaned low in the back of his throat.

The sound of his own hoarse voice was surprising. It was probably no louder than a whisper, but it sounded like a shout against a background of nothing. At least he knew he wasn't deaf.

He rolled his tongue over his swollen lip. Wherever he was, he hadn't been here long. His mouth was still bleeding.

He was beginning to regret, now, that the last words he'd formed with that mouth had been, "You want to help me, Sandburg, leave me the fuck alone!"

*

Blair murmurs "Hey" as Jim walks in the door, but he doesn't look up. He's reading on the couch in the odd ensemble of boxers, a leather necklace, and glasses. The late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the living room window gives his bare body a warm, golden quality; it highlights the subtle angles of his face, the curves of developing muscle in his arms, the shine of his damp ponytail. He's concentrating, slightly biting his lip. He looks like a scholar prince. Or a naughty librarian.

Jim just pauses in the doorway to look at him. For just a moment, he's caught off guard, he can't believe his luck, to have this lovely creature in his living room. Maybe it's a sense of sight thing, this giddy appreciation for beauty. He doesn't remember drinking in anyone else this way, noticing all the tiny details. The curling tendrils of hair, white in the sun. Those clear-sky eyes, full of light and depth. Those cherry lips, shiny and slightly swollen from biting.

Blair finally glances up from his reading. "Did you want something?"

Jim pointedly sweeps his eyes down the length of Blair's body and back again.

Blair sighs and sits up. "Okay, okay, I know, you might have brought back Simon or someone, but it's not like I planned to hang around in my underwear, I just got distracted by this, this author's claims about Mayan societal taboos are just completely ridiculous, based completely on speculation and whimsy, I don't know how it ever got past peer review, and--well, look, Jim," he says, annoyed now, getting to his feet. "It's not like I had rose petals strewn around. I live here too, you know, and some people just don't wear pants around the house!"

By this time Jim has crossed the room and now stands close to him, still staring solemnly. Blair gives him a defiant look. "What do you say to that?"

"You're so goddamn sexy," says Jim.

Blair beams.

Jim buries his face in the crook of Blair's neck, inhaling his scent. "Mm-mm," says Blair. "Man, I love it that you say sexy and not cute. Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with cute. Cute's gotten me a lot of play over the years. But sexy is definitely more respectable, you know, especially coming from you, who's like... hello..." Blair shows the first signs of beginning to lose his train of thought as Jim nibbles his ear and runs his fingertips down the trail of hair leading to his waistband.

"You gonna keep talking?"

"I might," says Blair.

"Fine by me," Jim grins. "See how long you can keep it up." He licks Blair's neck.

"Mm. You want me to?"

"Yeah. Remain coherent," says Jim, slipping a hand beneath Blair's waistband, and trailing one finger lightly over his hipbone, around his thigh. "And informative."

"You're on," says Blair, unceremoniously stepping out of his boxers. "What should I talk about?"

Jim folds Blair's naked body into a close embrace, arms tight around his shoulders, as he considers the question. He murmurs in his ear, "Guide me."

A wide, wondering smile spreads across Blair's face. Then he nods, "Right," and sits down on the couch. "Well, first of all, Jim, I'm going to need you to kneel right here in front of me, yeah, that's great. Okay. Ready? Trust me?"

Jim tears himself away from the sight of Blair's cock, large and erect, and looks up to his face. He has that anticipatory twinkle in his eye--not the worshipful, imploring look he sometimes gives to girls, but the more familiar, academic, "I'm such a genius and this experiment is going to be so exciting" look. It's amazing how he can be the only wet, naked guy in the room, and yet still convey a sense of authority. Jim nods.

"You know," says Blair, "this really isn't the same without you complaining."

"Got no complaints," says Jim.

"Wow, we are making progress. Okay, now, are you ready? Breathing, comfortable? You need a pillow? Knee pads?"

Jim rolls his eyes, trying to look more annoyed than affectionate. "Get on with it."

"That's more like it. Okay, now put your mouth around the head of my cock... uh, yeah, just... just gently like, and lick... all around..." Blair's hand rests on Jim's head, gently stroking his hair. "Good, good. Run your tongue down the shaft--mm, okay, cup my balls with your hand, now come back to the tip... Now take it, take it, suck it, fill your mouth, oh--careful, breathe, deep breaths through your nose, good job, go, further, throat me, suck me, good, yeah, yeah, yeah..." He is petting Jim's head rapidly now, and trailing off into the kind of grunts not found in any dictionary. Victory.

Then he whimpers, lets out a sharp breath, and mutters something which is either "Taste it" or "Take it." Either way, Jim has no intention of doing anything else. He scales back his sense of taste just as hot liquid hits back of his mouth. He pulls his head back and swallows, thinking absently: water, salt, citric acid, trace chlorine. He smiles, wondering if Blair would be interested in a chemical breakdown of his own come. He rests his head on Blair's thigh and closes his eyes, feeling the slow rhythm of his deep breathing, his blood, the thump of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body.

Suddenly Blair starts to laugh. Jim lifts his eyes to his flushed and grinning face.

"If Simon could see you now!"

*

Feeling was slowly beginning to return to Jim's body, sluggish and painful. His entire body was generally achy, as if he hadn't moved in a long time. He could move his wrists and ankles slightly, but something tightened when he did that--he was restrained somehow. He could arch his back, but that hurt. He was bruised between the shoulder blades, where he'd been hit.

He remembered that much. Remembered running into the alley, kneeling beside the body. He knew it wasn't Blair, couldn't be Blair, but he had to make sure. And when he turned over the shoulder and saw that unfamiliar face, even though it was somebody's face, he'd rocked back on his haunches, weak with relief.

That was when something heavy hit his back, and he felt the pinch of what he now knew was a hypodermic needle.

At least he knew that Blair was safe.

He didn't really--the same kind of ambush could have been waiting for Blair somewhere else--but somehow he felt sure that Blair wasn't here. Wasn't anywhere close. If Blair were here, or anyone, for that matter, he'd be able to hear a heartbeat, digestive gurgling, blood rushing, and those other hundred tiny sounds of life that he usually tuned out. He'd be able to smell him, feel his presence. He'd just know.

Besides, Blair didn't have many enemies, aside from the kind that wrote scathing reviews of his articles and made him morose for days. Jim was another story. There were so many ex-military ex-cons, present politicians with shady drug connections, and higher-ups in present or former official or unofficial South American governments that wouldn't be sorry to see Jim locked up. The suspect list was overwhelming.

He wondered if anyone had noticed he was gone by now. He didn't know how long he'd been here, but under normal circumstances, it would be tough not to notice that your roommate and partner and the topic of all your research is missing for any length of time. That fight complicated things, though. Blair had stormed off, a logical response to "Leave me the fuck alone," and Jim didn't know where he'd gone, or how long he intended to stay away. Even if he got back to the loft and found Jim gone, he wouldn't necessarily think, "Foul play is afoot!"

Still, getting rescued was plan B. If anyone else had been captured, it would be Jim rescuing him. Jim wasn't such an old softy that he couldn't rescue himself from--whatever this was. As soon as his strength returned...

Then, there were things he could still do without moving. Rest, regroup, gather information. Hey, dumbass, he imagined Blair saying, are you a Sentinel or aren't you?

Information gathering went poorly for the first few minutes. The nothingness still pretty much felt, sounded, and looked like nothing.

Blair would say to focus. Breathe. That's it, buddy, in and out. Relax. Forget your internal state. Focus on the external. Let your senses take over. You can do this. He closed his eyes, not that it mattered.

He was laid out on his back on a hard but padded surface, maybe a thin mattress on top of a floor or table. The insides of the cuffs were padded, too. He guessed he should find that considerate.

The silence was profoundly unnerving. You could only see so much without light, but you could always hear something. Even through thick walls he should be able to hear guards walking up and down, people talking, other prisoners shouting or moving around. Something. He opened his mouth and spoke, just to remind himself what sound was like. "Hi," he said to himself. "How's it going." Then he laughed, because it was ridiculous. If Blair could see him now.

Try harder, he told himself sternly. He lay back and listened.

The most obvious noise was, of course, his own breathing. His own body. He let the steady sound lull him. In, out. In, out. Gradually he began to separate out another frequency.

White noise generators. More than one, probably located in the surrounding cells.

Ah-ha. That's why he couldn't hear anything else. The other cells were empty except for the generators. There were no other prisoners in the block. This was all about him.

Either his captors knew his secret, or they were just very, very good at the sensory deprivation thing. Either way, they probably didn't expect him to be able to hear individual white noise generators. To a normal person, this would just sound like silence. He smiled, taking pleasure in this teeny edge.

He ran through the rest of his senses for any other information he could pick up. Sight, check. Hearing, check. Smell? Well, he smelled himself. He needed a bath. He smelled dirt and stone. It smelled familiar, local. He hadn't gone far. Taste. Well, there wasn't much to taste except the inside of his own mouth, which tasted not unlike a sock full of pennies. The blood had clotted up, for the most part. He hadn't had anything to eat since his sandwich oh... judging by the breakdown on his teeth... ten, fifteen hours ago. Better and better.

He focused on his feeling, trying to take a mental inventory of his possessions. He couldn't feel a belt or anything heavy, which meant they'd taken his gun, cuffs, badge, wallet, keys, and phone. Shoes, too. His feet were bare, cold in the cool air. He couldn't feel any buttons or zippers on his clothes. He didn't feel naked, but it took him a long time to figure out what he was wearing. He eventually decided it must be a lightweight, loose-fitting cotton shirt and drawstring pants. As if someone had tried on purpose to choose fabrics that wouldn't bother a Sentinel.

Maybe his secret wasn't as secret as he thought.

He opened his eyes. The blackness didn't seem quite so black. There was a vague quality of redness to it. By concentrating on his vision he was eventually able to make out a hazy indication of right angles, parallel grooves in the wall. He was in a small cinderblock room, approximately an eight by eight by eight cube. He lay about four feet off the ground against one wall. The near wall was padded, like the surface below him. Great, a padded cell. The far wall was smoother than the others, probably a large steel door.

Gazing into the darkness, it seemed to him that the reddish light wasn't actually an ambient quality of the room. It was a beam, a particular, widening shaft. The source was tiny, no more than a pinhole, located in the corner of the ceiling to the left of the door. A video camera.

It was surprisingly non-creepy to know he was being watched. Either he suspected it all along, somehow, or he was just used to living in a fishbowl thanks to Blair and his constant state-of-the-Sentinel checks. Jim avoided looking directly at the camera so as not to give away his hand. Not that he knew, yet, what good this information would do him.

He coughed. His throat was dry. Well, if they (whoever they were) wanted him alive, they'd have to give him water sometime. If not--

Well, either way, he needed to find a way out.

*

Blair's wearing that ratty sweatshirt Jim hates, the smelly hemp one with the deep V revealing ample chest hair which Jim hopes Blair doesn't think is some kind of turn-on. Granted, Blair comes from a world of relaxed dress code, and Jim doesn't expect him to show up in a crisp Secret Service suit or anything, but he should know he's representing the police now and he can't go around looking like your junior high best friend's pothead brother.

Blair pulls up a chair and plops himself down at Jim's desk, knocking shoulders with him in a "hi there big guy" kind of way. Jim considers telling him to get lost because he's doing something important, but Blair's got work too and no place else to do it, so Jim just scoots over and clears some space for him. Blair shoots him an appreciative grin and briefly grabs his knee under the desk.

Automatically, Jim's eyes dart around the bullpen. Sure, everyone looks like they're minding their own business: filling out forms; making phone calls; booking mangy druggies; scratching their faces and being booked. But they are minding their own business with too-practiced calm. As soon as he gets up to go to a scene or head home, Blair will inevitably pop up and bob along happily in his wake, and everyone is going to burst out laughing.

Jim stands up and, sure enough, Blair's on his feet, grabbing his leather jacket off the hook. "Where we goin'?"

" _I'm_ going to the men's room," says Jim in a low voice, glancing around. He doesn't want everyone to think they're the kind of--not couple, people, friends--who have to inform each other of their bathroom plans. It's just too mortifying.

"Great!" says Blair, clapping him on the back. "Lead the way."

"You can't come!" says Jim, horrified. Oh, Christ, does Blair think this is some kind of euphemism?

"What are you talking about? Am I, like, banned? Did the urinal put out a restraining order? I hope not, cause I've had like, five cups of coffee today," Blair flashes ten fingers, "and I'm about to--kshhh!--explode!"

"Fine. Great. Enjoy," Jim mutters. He sits down and opens a random file folder on his desk.

Blair doesn't go, though, he just stands there in front of Jim's desk. He does an impatient little dance. "Aren't you coming?"

"I think you can handle this one on your own," says Jim. "I have faith in you."

"I thought you had to go."

"Well, I don't," Jim snaps. Can't Blair just drop it and leave him alone to concentrate on "Proposed Changes to Boating Accident Report Supplement 5"? Doesn't he have places to be? Isn't he about to (kshhh) explode?

Apparently any discomfort Blair may be experiencing is insufficient to overcome his interest in Jim's inconsistency. "So, like, standing up and saying 'I'm going to the bathroom', that was some elaborate hoax?"

"I thought I had to, but I don't," Jim explains impatiently. He's sure everyone is staring now. This conversation is getting ludicrously long.

Blair snorts an obnoxious laugh. "What are you, two? Listen, here's a thought, why don't you go in there, turn on the water, maybe a little soothing music, stand over the bowl, and just see what happens?"

Jim can tell he's mostly joking, but he sends him a death glare to show he doesn't appreciate the humor. "There are some aspects of my life," he says coldly, "that I do not need you to guide."

"Yeah, I know," says Blair, and from his impish grin, Jim can tell his mind has turned to naughty thoughts. "But isn't it so much nicer when I do?"

The flirtation ball is in his court, and Jim drops it like a stone. "I did just fine for thirty-five years without you."

Blair's smile fades.

Jim immediately feels like he's kicked a puppy. He stands and awkwardly cuffs Blair's shoulder, a gesture which comes out far gayer than intended. He pulls back his hand and awkwardly reached over to pick up the file folder. "I've got a meeting."

"Have fun. Make sure you pee first," Blair advises his back, just a little too loudly. Everyone in earshot titters as Jim stalks off to his fictitious meeting, head held high.

*

 _Thumpita thumpita THROK THROK._

The beat was sudden, deafening, and maddeningly unsteady. It jerked Jim out of a dream, yanking him from the green of the jungle back into his tiny cinderblock cell.

Silence again. Had he dreamed the drumbeat, too?

 _Thump thump thok!_

He blinked awake again. What the hell was that? White noise generators, silence, then incredibly loud drums? Was that on purpose, or is the sensory deprivation failing? Could that be the first sign of an impending rescue?

Back to silence. Jim listened to his heart steady. His shoulder ached steadily. He began to count his breaths, for something to do. One... two... fifty-eight... one hundred twenty nine...

 _Thumpity thok thok._ Pause. _THUMP!_

Jim groaned and tried to rub his eyes, and only jerked his wrist in the cuff. "Turn that jungle music down," he muttered to himself. Even when Blair was playing his "experimental" music, there was enough of a rhythm that you could eventually tune it out and get some sleep, but this was just random noise. How was he supposed to sleep through this?

He wasn't, of course. He was beginning to put together a pattern. First sensory deprivation, now sleep deprivation. They were watching him for sure, then, if only to tell when he started to drift off.

Keep positive, he told himself. Stay strong. Count your assets.

(1) His senses were working fine. He'd been testing them regularly. His guide would be proud.

(2) His physical strength was beginning to return, and soon he would be in good condition for an escape. All he needed was something to use as a lockpick.

(3) Each time, they'd let him get a few minutes of sleep before they started in with the noise. Minutes could add up.

A game to pass the time, maybe. That's what Blair always wanted to do on stake-outs. It was hard to think of something that would be fun with one person. Most things weren't even fun with two. Mental tic tac toe. Let's see. X in the upper left. O in dead center. X in the center left. O in the bottom left. O in the upper right. Or is there an X there? X in the middle right. O in the middle.

 _Thumpita thok thok thwam!_

Right. No surprise there. His eyes fluttered open and his lifted his head as much as he could, just to show he was awake.

At least they were doing this by the book. Standard torture, 101. This was a book he knew cover to cover. He was more sure than ever that he was dealing with a government. They would get him good and isolated, and then they would introduce a representative--someone charming, an attractive woman, maybe. At this point, they'd be counting on him to be so desperate for company that he would bond with his captors and give them whatever they wanted. If he didn't, they'd resort to physical pain. He knew this script. He'd trained for it. Captain James Ellison, serial number 40589. Captain James Ellison, serial number 40589. Captain...

 _Thok thok tham. Thwam! Thump!_

It was going to be a long night.

*

"Mmm... Jim..." The voice reaches Jim through a dim haze of sleep. He reluctantly opens his eyes and lets his moonlit bedroom flood his vision. The air is hot and uncomfortably sticky, and he's momentarily surprised, as he always is these days, to find he's not alone. Blair's gazing intently at him across about an inch of pillow space. He opens his mouth, looking like he's about to say something important. Jim doesn't know what, but he feels his heart quicken.

"Jim," says Blair. "Don't let me sleep in. Set that mental alarm clock of yours for eight."

"Urg," says Jim, releasing a breath. "Why? We don't have to be in until noon tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know, but I promised this kid in my methods class I'd tutor him for his quantum mechanics exam."

Jim squints and rubs his forehead. "What?"

"I know, I know. Why do I do these things to myself? I think I'm just a masochist. Don't let that give you any ideas. Okay, maybe a couple."

"But," says Jim, still stuck on an earlier point, "you don't know quantum mechanics."

"Sure I do."

"How?"

"Same way I know everything. Took a class. Two, actually."

Jim's beginning to actually believe him. "Why?" he asks.

Blair shrugs. "Why not? It looked interesting. I happened to have the prerequisites."

"How many classes did you actually take in college?"

"Seventy-three."

Blair has the number so ready that Jim figures it's for real. "Jesus. What is that, nine courses a semester?"

"Yeah. Well, some of them were in the summer. And some were only one credit. But yeah. It wasn't that hard. That was when I was on the polyphasic sleep schedule, you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"I never told you this? Yeah, no, I didn't used to sleep at night. I just took a twenty minute nap every four hours. You know, like Thomas Jefferson? That leaves twenty-two working hours per day. So it really wasn't that hard."

Jim stares at Blair for a moment, and then shakes his head. "You're pulling my leg."

"I'm not! I swear to God, that's how I lived for like five years."

"Like Thomas Jefferson," Jim repeats. Then he laughs and cuffs Blair on the shoulder. "Can't be done. You'd go crazy after day one. Which, granted, explains some things about you..."

"No, no, it's totally do-able. I was pretty useless the first couple of weeks, but I was in undergrad, so it didn't matter. Actually, it was kind of fun. I got some really trippy visions."

"And I thought that was just all the drugs," Jim remarks.

"I've told you and told you, I never got into drugs," says Blair. "I prefer a natural high. Brainpower." He taps his head. "Cardio." He taps his chest. "Other fun forms of exercise." He runs a finger down Jim's chest and stomach, and grins like a jerk.

"And sleep deprivation," Jim concludes. "Great."

"Listen, we don't really need as much sleep as we get. I mean, sleeping eight hours is really one of the more inefficient uses of time. Did you know you only get about twenty minutes of REM in every three-hour sleep cycle anyway? Once your brain learns to go into REM as soon as you go down, you're fine. I was totally fine, kind of amazing, actually. I was never tired, and I got so much _done_! Oh man. I had a double courseload, I had a job, I had an internship, I tutored inner-city kids, and I was, like, dead center of the social scene at Hawkins House."

"Hawkins House," says Jim, deadpan. "Imagine that."

Blair smiles fondly. "What I miss the most is the hours between three and six in the morning. Those were the best. I'd be the last one to leave a party, I'd drop by the dorm for a quick nap, I'd head to the all-night diner, throw together an awesome paper, quick nap, and I'd be totally bright-eyed and fucking bushy-tailed for my 8 AM class. Kids'd be shuffling in wearing their pajamas, mainlining espresso, and I'd be all, 'Yes, Professor, that's a cogent point, but have you read what Bentham has to say on the subject?' _I_ had, of course. Now I'm the teacher and I hate that kid. God, I'm a slouch these days."

Jim feels an irrational hatred for Past Blair, if only because Present Day Blair thinks he's so great. He sounds like kind of a tool, actually. "You're mad at yourself cause you have to sleep?"

"A little," Blair admits. "I mean, sometimes I think of all the stuff I've gotta do--cop stuff, Sentinel stuff, classes I gotta teach, classes I wanna take, articles I wish I had the time to write, man, articles I wish I had the time to _read_ \--and I'm like, 'What the hell am I doing wasting all this time in bed?'"

Jim stiffens, but Blair's too busy yawning and stretching and nestling into Jim's comforter to notice. Jim wonders whether he ought to point out the obvious contradiction, but any way he thinks of putting it sounds catty and stupid: "What about when you're _with me_?" "You obviously like _my bed_." "Sorry _sleeping with me_ is such a waste of your precious time." And then Blair will have to reassure him, but it won't mean anything, because it's fished for. He doesn't want to put Blair in that position, and he doesn't want to be that guy. Instead he asks, trying to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice, "So why'd you stop?"

Blair shrugs lazily against the pile of pillows. "It actually requires a lot of discipline to stick to the nap schedule. You miss one, you don't feel right for the next two, three cycles. About a year into postgrad, I was living with this host family in Samoa, and I was expected to do my part, help out around the village, you know. It didn't feel right trying to sneak off for a nap every four hours. I didn't want to look like the lazy American, and there was nothing I really could do when everyone else was asleep. I'd just be sitting there, like, 'Yup, what now?' There's not much night life in Va'a-o-Fonoti. So I stopped, and then when I got back I didn't pick it up again. I knew it'd save me time in the long run, but I could never spare two weeks in the short term, and, you know, believe it or not, my life's less predictable now than it was when I was twenty-one. I can't be going off to nap all the time. I got responsibilities."

Jim doesn't say anything. He knows Blair means him. Taking care of him. He could take twenty minutes off from writing an article. It's only in Jim's world that twenty minutes is the difference between success and failure, between catching bad guys or letting them run, between life and death.

"Besides," says Blair, smiling goofily, and cozying up to Jim, "sleeping at the same time as other people has its compensations."

"What? You're telling me all that time--you didn't sleep with anyone?" says Jim.

"Well, I had _sex_ , of course," says Blair, with a little laugh. "I had tons of sex. But no, I didn't sleep with anyone. I mean, not for more than twenty minutes. They'd fall into the deep sleep of the totally satisfied and world-rocked, naturally--"

"Naturally," says Jim, rolling his eyes.

"--and I'd be totally wide awake and bored, so I'd just kinda slip away and go do something else. Looking back, it was pretty lonely and sad. I mean, I could never have given you the level of snuggling that you require."

"I don't," says Jim with great dignity, "require snuggling."

"Oh, no?" Blair laughs. "Why is it, then, that every time I drift away, you drag me back?"

"Untrue," says Jim stiffly, edging away to give Blair his free-spirit personal bubble.

"True! Completely true. You just don't know it because you're asleep," says Blair. He scoots close and rests his head on Jim's chest, caresses Jim's stomach with one hand. "Don't be embarrassed, you dork. I like it." He wriggles. "You're warm."

"So're you," Jim admits gruffly, wrapping a tight arm around Blair's shoulder.

"See, I know I don't _need_ sleep," says Blair in a sleepy voice which belies his words. "I just do it cause I like to do it with you. Isn't that a nice compliment? I even want to be with you when you're unconscious."

"Don't get mushy," says Jim sternly, squeezing Blair close.

  


*

Jim didn't know how long he'd been lying there staring at the dim outline of the cinderblock in front of him. Hours. Days. One million years.

There had been exactly zero change in his circumstances from the moment he woke up, except that the sedative had worn off, but he had to fight against a rising sense of anxiety. These empty moments, one no different from another, should have been simply dull, but instead they felt increasingly sinister.

In a way, they _were_ , since the fact that he was here was evidence of a sinister plot, but it felt like more than that. The emptiness itself felt meaningful. Pointed. The universe giving him the silent treatment.

Blair would say his brain was inventing something to fill the void and he would be right. He started seeing movement in the corners of his eyes, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there.

He couldn't wait for the complex hallucinations. He was looking forward to the company.

Occasionally, he tried to slip his wrists out of the cuffs. Unfortunately he had never learned how to dislocate his thumbs on command. He was usually the one clapping cuffs on people, not the other way around. When he got frustrated he shook his legs and arms angrily, trying to dislodge the cuffs with brute strength. This was just as ineffective and made him feel like a caged beast, so he stopped. For a long time, he lay very, very still, only moving his eyelids to show the cameras that he was awake. He let himself fall into a sensory trance.

There wasn't really any more information to get about his cell, but once, he thought he heard the distant caw of a crow outside. The pitter-patter of squirrel's feet on the roof. He imagined he was in a forest, miles from any populated area. He never heard any human sounds, except for one fleeting moment, when he thought he heard voices. He tried to hear them a second time, but they never came back. Upon reflection, this was probably a good thing. Once he started hearing voices, he'd know he couldn't trust the information from his senses. He wasn't sure he could trust it now.

Eventually he was too tired to move, too tired to focus. His few stolen moments of sleep hadn't begun to do much for him yet. Maybe Blair was full of shit. He blinked wearily at the cinderblock ceiling. His eyes felt achy, dry from being open for so long.

He couldn't think of a single escape plan, not without a change in routine, not without anybody to talk to or punch. Whoever stuffed him in here--were they keeping an eye on him all the time, or just sometimes? Was the sleep alarm automated in some way, hooked up to his vital signs or something, or were they keeping a constant watch on him? How could they see through the camera, night vision or something? Did they even want him alive, or were they willing to watch him starve to death in here? It seemed weird that they'd go to the all the trouble of the capture, the cell, the white noise generators, if they just wanted him dead, but maybe somebody wanted him to die a particularly annoying death.

Not for the first time, he thought wildly that it was probably Blair. "Teach you to yell at me! You want to be left alone now?" Because he didn't. He desperately wanted to talk to Blair.

How long had he been here? It couldn't be longer than a few days-not without water. It felt like more. What was holding up the rescue? Simon might not notice he was gone right away, especially since he was supposed to be heading right into stakeout mode on Monday (what day was it now?), but surely Blair would have asked for his help by now.

Then again, who knew where Blair had gone after he backed away from Jim, hurt in his eyes. Maybe he'd hauled off to the woods somewhere to meditate or something and had no idea Jim was missing. Maybe he knew but thought it was on purpose, that _Jim_ had gone off to the woods to get away. Maybe he knew and just didn't care. Maybe he knew but expected Jim to rescue his own damn self.

Even Jim would have bet on himself to escape by now. Ten years ago, five years ago, he probably would have. He didn't know what he would have done but it would have been something. Now? Even though he couldn't think of a viable alternative, he was disgusted with himself for just lying here, taking his silent punishment.

Probably should've come as no surprise that he'd gone soft. Should have guessed it ages ago. He couldn't even get Blair to put the fucking cap back on the toothpaste. How could you expect a man like that to escape from imprisonment? Buying him his own tube didn't help; he forgot which one was his and then both nozzles were crusted over with disgusting sticky bits of hardened toothpaste, collecting dirt and long, curly strands of hair.

The worrying thing was, if Jim really had to look into his heart and admit the honest truth, he didn't really give a damn anymore. It wasn't such a big ordeal to clean off the tube each morning. He only kept bringing it up so he wouldn't look weak for ceding. Besides, it was kind of comforting to have ritual.

Great, started out thinking of escape plans, and ended up thinking of toothpaste. You'd think with nothing to do but think, he'd at least be able to keep himself on task. "I am going nuts," he said out loud.

He was alarmed by a frighteningly loud clicking noise. His entire body tensed, and he stared at the door with wide eyes.

But the only door that opened was a small slot at about standing eye level. A pair of night vision goggles peered at him from the other side. Below the goggles, a pair of cheeks crinkled in a smarmy smile.

"Nice of you to let me know, Detective Ellison," said Brackett.

Without thinking, Jim spat in the direction of the window. He didn't make the distance, of course; his mouth was dry, and it was hard to get the kind of velocity he wanted from a lying position. He was kind of impressed he managed to hit the floor instead of the bed.

Brackett laughed. "I see you're in no mood to talk. I'll come back later."

"Wait." Jim's voice was scratchy from dryness and disuse. He hated himself for speaking. Just what Brackett wanted.

Brackett paused with the slot open, letting in the slightly less dim red light of the hall, and Jim hated himself for feeling so relieved.

"What do you want?" Jim found himself speaking, stalling for time. "Information? I won't tell you anything. Doesn't matter what you say. Threats. Bribes. Make your best pitch. It won't make a difference."

Brackett smiled, taking obvious satisfaction in Jim's ridiculous attempt at bravado. "Goodbye, Ellison," he said softly.

"Don't go!" Jim cried hoarsely as the slot slid shut and latched. He shook his bonds, reaching toward the door.

"Urg!" he shouted as loud he could. He punched the air, a weak and pathetic gesture with his hand bound. Frustration whirled in his chest with no outlet. His breathing was ragged, unsettled. Relax, buddy. It's okay. Steady does it. In, out. No shaking now. This does not upset you.

He knew this was a standard manipulation technique. Isolate a man long enough and he'll be eager to talk to whoever comes along. People need people. Knowing about the need didn't make him immune to it; there was no reason it should. Trained soldiers were routinely taken in by techniques right out of the book. That they worked was the reason they were _in_ the book.

Still, Jim couldn't help feeling disgusted with his boring, predictable, human weakness.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He could hardly believe that he was right back where he'd started. The isolation felt even more intense after the momentary contact, like eyes bleached after seeing light. There was nothing to do but replay the scene in his mind several times thinking of ways he could have played it better. Could have come off cooler. And, yes, could have gotten Brackett to stay longer.

Jim was dimly aware that he used to _like_ being alone, once upon a time. A long, long time ago.

"Fuck you," Jim enunciated carefully to no one in particular. "I don't need anyone."

Then he regretted that, too, because there's no more obvious statement of need than saying, "I don't need." Brackett was probably still navigating the hallways now, but whoever was watching the closed-circuit video was probably laughing at him right now.

The terrible thought occurred to Jim that maybe nobody was watching him at all.

  


*

Jim thrusts his way through the press of bodies, pushing through a wall of gyrating, sweaty limbs and stupid Pleather outfits. Blair's souped-up earplugs drown out the worst of the din, but there's still the relentless heavy thump of bass from the stage, and shrill, screeching voices whenever some kid's screaming mouth gets too close to his ear. A splash of cold alcohol hits his elbow, and someone pinches his butt. He hates Club Doom.

This is a fruitless quest. Blair is the only one he can reliably locate in this crowd, and that's only because, well, it's Blair. He knows every stimulus associated with Blair, every sight, sound, smell--and, yes, feel and taste. Looking for anyone else is like looking for a needle in a very loud and annoying haystack. He doesn't know what this guy smells like or sounds like; Detective Shannon would probably have been confused if he'd asked for samples, and anyway, the description and the photo are all she has. Jim suspects even those are fake. Isn't the whole point of the Internet that you're anonymous? But Detective Shannon seemed sure of her methods. "He wants to meet her. He'll show."

"Isn't it obvious that _she's_ a fake?" Jim has persisted, right up until the last moment.

Shannon had waved her hand impatiently, trying to fasten on giant hoop earrings of the type that fifteen-year-old girls trying to pass for eighteen apparently favor.

"Never underestimate the stupidity of an addict in search of his next fix," Megan had supplied.

"Maybe he _wants_ to get caught," suggested Blair, more charitable in his estimation of other people's intelligence.

"Yeah, I'm not taking any advice from _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ rejects tonight," Jim had told them. Megan looks ridiculous in a lace-up corset, sparkly leggings, stilettos, and a short but poofy jacket made entirely of pink feathers. She's not trying to look young, like Detective Shannon--her objective is just to "fit in" at Club Doom--which is lucky, because the overall effect is of a woman past her thirtieth birthday trying to look like she's still a happening college kid. Blair is no less silly-looking in a silver silk shirt, leather pants, and an irritating soul patch. Jim suspects they both jumped at this assignment solely to justify past impractical clothing purchases.

"Topical reference as always, Jim," said Blair.

"You would have looked good in a gold bikini, Jim," said Megan.

Jim had glanced at Blair, daring him to agree, but he just said, "Jeans and a T-shirt is about as casual as Jim gets. He wouldn't even let me draw a tribal tattoo on his arm."

"Of course not," said Jim. "It starts to smear off, and then how authentic do I look?"

"Aw, you'll just look like a poser," said Blair. "For Club Doom, that's very authentic. Oh, burn!"

"All right, kids," said Shannon coolly, taking on a parental role that's incongruous for a woman in slightly too-big purple pumps and a candy necklace. "Let's move out."

Without specifically meaning to, Jim has edged out of the crowd, toward the perimeter, and toward Blair, who's grooving idly the music, humming under his breath, and peering out at the dance floor from a choice vantage point by the back exit. Jim comes up behind him and just watches him for a moment, trying to imagine what he'd think if he just saw Blair here, a stranger. He doesn't look quite like he belongs, but it's not obvious at first glance. Unless you're paying attention to the way he stands slightly apart from the crowd, the preoccupied glances, the occasional fleeting worry lines that betray him as just a little too old for this, you'd think he was just another club kid. Honestly, if Jim didn't already know Blair, he probably wouldn't give him a second thought. He's good-looking, with his broad, youthful face and painted-on rock star pants, but Jim doesn't think he would have noticed, just a few years ago. Jim really wasn't really attuned to Blair's particular type of beauty until after he met him. Possibly, this is a sign of brainwashing.

Jim touches Blair's shoulder, one finger briefly brushing the bare skin under the collar of his billowing shirt. Blair jumps about four feet before he sees who it is and relaxes into a grin.

"Easy, Chief," Jim smiles. "I don't think you're his type."

"WHAT?" says Blair.

Jim shakes his head.

"NO, WHAT?" Blair insists.

Jim frowns, taking Blair's chin in his hand and turning his face into the light. Something near his left eye sparkles.

"ARE YOU WEARING BODY GLITTER?" Jim shouts.

Blair pauses, trying to parse the sentence over the noise, then points to his face, nods rapidly, and gives a thumbs up.

What an idiot, Jim tries very hard to think. The thing is, though, somehow, the stupid 80s rocker-cum-stripper look works for him. Same old Blair, but slightly alien, just enough so you look at him like it's for the first time.

Jim wonders where his life went wrong, that he's standing here now in a goth music club getting hot for a man in makeup. Really. He wants to pinpoint the moment.

Blair turns to him and points to the exit. He speaks slowly, with a wide mouth and lots of gestures, which are really unnecessary since Jim could pick Blair's voice out of any cacophony. "Out there"--he points up the stairs--"lots of people"--global gesture, out over the crowd--"go to"--two stick figures horizontal and gyrating. Jim considers his options briefly. Does he want to sneak off for a quickie in the middle of this increasingly surreal investigation? He heaves a sigh, nods, and gestures for Blair to lead the way.

The cool night air is a welcome respite from the stifling heat of the club, although the smell of trash isn't much of a trade-up from alcohol and body odor. Oh, well, he'll get used to it. He pops out his earplugs. Blair peers around the corner of the giant recycle unit (the club recycles; how noble). Jim knows there's nobody around but he still takes the lead, one hand on his gun, because you can't be too careful. Blair follows him close to the other side of the unit, looks around, and then turns to Jim for confirmation. "Anyone here?"

"No," says Jim. "We're alone." And in a swift motion he presses Blair up against the bin and kisses his wet mouth.

There's an unexpected pressure against his chest, and Jim ducks back, confused. Blair has his a hand out, a confused expression on his face. He steps back, wiping his mouth. "Jim, what--?"

Jim doesn't know what to say. "I, I thought you..."

His face is burning but it's not from the heat inside or the lust of the moment. He's thoroughly chastened even before Blair says, "Dude, we're on a case!"

Of course they're on a case. What does he think he's doing? Blair (Blair!) is right (!!): this is no time for messing around (Blair? Blair _Sandburg_ had to point that out? What is wrong with Jim? What is wrong with Jim's _life_?)

Blair's grinning, open-mouthed. "Ha!" he says. "Ha! I--"

"Shh," Jim hisses, holding up a hand. He's just caught a very welcome snatch of Shannon's voice in the adjoining alley.

"Yeah, yeah, you hear something. Pretty convenient. We're picking this up later."

"Freeze!" Jim shouts as he skids into the next alley, but Shannon has this pretty well handled. She grabs the perp's arm when he's distracted, twists him into a kneeling position, arm behind his head, and tells him he's got a right to remain silent. Megan, standing on her other side with gun drawn, gives Jim a quizzical look.

"Are you wearing body glitter?" she asks.

Jim hastily wipes his mouth, gratefully letting Blair jump into the conversation with an irrelevant but distracting remark about Megan's outfit.

As they trade insults Jim tries to figure out a way to blame his shameful behavior on his senses. Pheromones again? That would explain a lot about the past few months, but raises a lot of unanswered questions (why Blair? why _now_?) He could put the theory to Blair and see what he thinks. But Jim already knows it's not right. It doesn't feel the same. This wasn't a sudden, overwhelming wave inexplicable physical need; it was a gradual overwhelming wave of really rather pleasurable desire, leading to a decision. A stupid one.

Jim glances doubtfully at Blair. In the illustration of some point Blair wrinkles his nose and makes tiger-claws and Jim wants to die. He can't help but think, this? This is what reduces me to a quivering pile of lust? This is what I'm powerless to resist? This is what I gazed at so lovingly this morning, honestly thinking embarrassing thoughts about soul mates and eternity? This is what's turning me into a bad cop?

The pedophile stares unnervingly at Jim from behind the glass of Megan's backseat window, and Jim feels a sick pang of recognition. There they are, two weak men, slaves to their twisted desires. Just guys with real priority problems.

"Kya! Nailed another one!" says Blair as he straps himself into the passenger seat of the truck. He rubs his hands together with glee. "Know what else?"

"No, what?" says Jim, already regretting asking.

"You," says Blair, pointing at him, " _want_ me!"

Jim has turn away from the road to give Blair a quick stare. How is that what this is about? How is that even news? They've been--whatever they've been doing, they've been doing it for months.

"Look," Blair explains, backing up a few steps, "in every relationship, right, there's the chaser, and the one getting chased."

"Spare me the anthropology lecture, okay, Chief?"

"Stay with me here. The person getting chased has all the power. The chaser has to make his desires clear, and that's a position of vulnerability. The chasee is free to remain mysterious, alluring, and, let's face it, just plain cool. Up until now, I've been the instigator in approximately ninety per cent of our successful sexual encounters, and over one hundred per cent of failed attempts. Before you ask, I'm counting the times you just looked at me and said 'Don't even think about it,' before I ever even said anything. How do you do that?"

"It's you," Jim points out. "I just assume."

"Well, now you're finally getting a taste of what it's like to chase and get shot down. You know what? I think it's healthy for you."

"Know what I think would be healthy for you?" says Jim. "A knuckle sandwich."

"Aw, don't worry, baby," Blair teases. "When we get home, I'll fuck you sideways."

"That's what you think," Jim mutters.

"And with that," says Blair philosophically, "the balance of power is restored."

Jim studies the profile of the arrest in the car ahead. Right off the top of his head, he can think of at least two exceptions to Blair's rule. When the rapist pursued his victims, all the power was with him. And when Shannon took him down tonight, she, the hunter, was in complete control. The prey never had a chance.

*

Jim woke up groggily, and there was a strange sensation. Shouldn't they have prevented him from sleeping? He groaned and turned. He was lying on his side, he realized. How had that happened? Something was different.

His eyes drifted open slowly, blinking against what was probably actually a fairly dim light. He was still in his cell, but the light was unbearable. It poured down from the ceiling. The bulbs buzzed like cicadas.

And there was somebody else in the room with him. He could hear blood rushing, a heart beating, not his own. The sounds were magnified to several times their normal volume-either this was a particularly loud person, or he was unused to the invasive sounds of another person existing. He could smell the person, too. It was a familiar smell-and not Brackett's--too nice--a sweaty, primal, floral, jungly smell.

A warm hand was cupping the back of his head. He jerked, and a voice said, "Shhh. Relax. You're among friends." A woman's voice. A cold, wet cloth dabbed his face, and the perfume filled his breath. The cloth came away and he could see his visitor.

"Surprise," said Alex. "Pleased to see me?"

Jim jerked up to a sitting position, gripping the mattress pad, ready to launch himself, ready to fight, and he suddenly realized what was different. He lifted his hands, looking at them in surprise. "I'm not cuffed."

"Very observant," said Alex.

"Oh," said Jim, nodding. "I get it. This is a hallucination."

Alex turned her head and pursed her lips in mock sympathy. "Poor dear. Have you been hallucinating?"

Conspicuous show of weakness. Good job, Jim told himself. "Don't worry about me." He stood up and then immediately sat back down on the edge of his bed. His legs felt shaky from lying down for so long.

She bent down and placed her hand against his face. "Do I feel like a hallucination?"

Jim tensed, doing his best not to lean into her touch. The truth was, the feeling was electric. Human contact. Never thought he'd miss it so much. He'd gotten spoiled.

She traced two warm fingers from his forehead to his chin and let them slide off into the air.

He followed her fingers with his eyes and looked at her face. He was getting used to the light, and it showed off endless variation in the colors of her hair and the flecks of her eyes. He wondered if he was capable of imagining or remembering that level of detail. The sounds of her breath and heartbeat were as loud as the jungle drums Brackett used to keep him awake. Her perfume, exotic and feminine, was just as he remembered it.

Jim decided to accept "she's real" as his working hypothesis.

She took her towel and began to gently dab the dirt and grime from his arms. The cell was warm-they'd turned up the heat, maybe, to make him uncomfortable-and the cool cloth left a tingling trail where she touched him.

Then he realized he didn't need to take this. He wrenched away, onto his knees, and staggered to his feet.

Behind him, Alex sighed. "Thanks would be nice."

"What are you doing here?" Jim demanded.

"Same thing as you. I'm a Sentinel, too."

Sure. Why wouldn't she be here? Brackett was one of the few people who knew about his powers; it stood to reason that he could have found out about hers. And it stood to reason that, whatever he planned for Jim, he also planned for Alex. "Brackett ambush you, too?"

"He didn't need to. He found me in the hospital."

"Right. You were in a coma."

"It wasn't a coma. It was-it was a true experience of my senses."

"Whatever. How'd he get you?"

"It was clever, actually. He just showed up one day and discharged me. He told them he was my long-lost husband. Had documents to prove it. I didn't know that was wrong. I had no memory."

"You remember me."

"I do now. After I'd been here awhile, my memories started to come back."

"Awhile" could mean anything from a few days to the eight months since Jim watched Alex being carted off into an ambulance in Peru. "How long have you been here?"

"How long have _you_ been here?" Alex countered.

"I don't know," Jim admitted.

"It gets easier," Alex promised.

Jim began to feel sorry for her. Evidently, she'd been trapped here a lot longer than he had. Not even Alex deserved the worst Lee Brackett could dish out.

"How'd you get in here?" he asked. "My cell?"

"Lee allows me to move freely about the compound."

She said it like it was some big fucking treat.

"Did you free me?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Oh. Well. Thanks," he said gruffly. He walked across to the steel door and yanked at the handle. It didn't budge. Locked. He turned to Alex. "You have the key?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere. Outside. Home. Where the fuck do you think I want to go?"

"You won't get far. Everything's videotaped."

"I'll take my chances. Come on, Alex!" Jim stepped back to her, lifting his fists in a show of strength. She didn't seem to understand. Impulsively he grabbed her hands in his.

She looked down at their clasped hands. Jim found himself unwilling to let go. She was a homicidal bitch, but she was warm, and she was human, and she was the only company he had--the only ally he had.

"We can do it," Jim promised, tightening his grip on her hands. "We're strong. Together, we can take him."

She blinked, and then smiled affectionately. "Poor dear."

Jim jumped at the nails-on-chalkboard whine of feedback, and Brackett's voice boomed from the ceiling, godlike, "I think that's enough questions for now, Alex. Why don't we give him some answers?"

Alex turned her face to the video camera, smiling radiantly in the glow of the ceiling light.

And Jim got it. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? She wasn't his ally. She was Brackett's.

*

"Ellison."

"Heya, buddy."

"Hi."

"Aw. I like the way you say that."

"Say what, 'hi'?"

"Yeah! Your voice gets all soft, you know? You sound just like Henri when his wife calls."

"I do not," says Jim, looking around furtively. Simon is standing by his open car door, talking on his own phone. Megan is kneeling under the "Do Not Cross" tape, offering a coffee to the pretty young crime scene photographer. Jim steps off to the edge of the park, under a tree, while Blair chatters on through the phone.

"Don't sweat it, man, not everyone has your hearing. You could be talking to a lady friend right now, for all anybody knows."

"Is that Sandy?" Megan calls from behind him. "Tell him he owes me a tenner!"

Jim shuts his eyes. "Make it quick, Sandburg. What do you want?"

"Not much. Just offering myself to you, body, mind, and soul. My student blew off his makeup exam, so I'm free for your pleasure."

"Yeah, I wish," says Jim, knowing Blair will understand this to be a genuine response even though he says it as an offhand, manly snort. "Some of us do work occasionally."

"What's going on? You need any help?"

"I'll be okay. Don't you have an article to write? Jungle justice?" Jim knows the real title--it's actually going to be called "Law, Authority, and Deviance in Six Pre-firearm Agrarian Communities," and Blair has been stalled on community number three for six weeks--but he doesn't like Blair to know he pays too much attention to every word he says. Besides, his way sounds more interesting.

"Eh," says Blair, a verbal shrug. "I can do that anytime."

"No time like the present. I got this."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure you're sure you're sure?"

"Yes, Sandburg, I'm positive," says Jim, a little annoyed now. "I've done hundreds of these, okay? Go home. Crack a fucking book."

"As you wish, honey bunch. See you tonight, my tender honeysuckle blossom." Blair thinks it's funny to use ludicrously sentimental pet names when he knows Jim can't answer back in kind. Not that he ever would.

"I'm hanging up now," Jim informs him. "You're an asshole."

"You too. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah."

"Jim."

Jim hangs up and jogs over to Megan, shaking himself back into work mode. "Corpse on a merry-go-round. That's cheery."

Megan nods. "Murder in a playground. How cliche can you get? Where's Sandy?"

"I don't know." Jim decides "crossing the university parking lot to his car" is too specific. "He's not on this."

"Why not? You two have a fight?"

"No. He doesn't have to be on everything," Jim says, irritable now.

"There's no need to bite my head off. You did have a fight, didn't you?"

"Is this the position you found her in? She hasn't been moved?"

The photographer shrugs. "I just take pictures. I don't move 'em."

"Interesting."

"What's interesting?" says Megan.

"Well, it feels almost ritualistic. Like she's inscribed in the circle." Jim zeros in on the victim's hands. One is bent in toward her shoulder, and the other is covered by a leaf. He's not sure what he sees, but something is amiss. He takes a stick from the ground and carefully brushes aside the leaf. Someone's written something on the palm, painted in ink, it looks like. Three horizontal lines.

"What the hell is that?" Megan wonders.

Jim carefully turns the other palm. This symbol he recognizes. "It's a Greek letter. Omega."

"What's the other one? Is that a letter, too?"

Jim shrugs. "I don't know the Greek alphabet. I just know the watch company."

"Now you really do need Sandburg, yeah? Hey, wait up, Tom. Where are you going? I think I saw some blood spatter over there..."

Jim looks at the body a moment longer, then picks up his phone and dials through the impossibly long series of telephone trees and extensions to get to Artifact Storage Room 3.

"Hi, this is Blair Sandburg. I'm not in the office right now. If you need to make an appointment, please try me by e-mail or call my cell phone at..."

He won't be home yet, so Jim tries the cell, even though it's invariably in the pocket of the coat Blair was wearing yesterday. How he manages this every day is beyond Jim, but that is the way things are.

The phone is answered on the first ring. "Hiya, cupcake!"

"Hi!" Jim's surprised to get him. "How did you know it would be me?"

"Who else would it be?"

Jim's annoyed by this, as if Blair was expecting him to need help on the case. "I don't know. Anyone. Could have been one of your students."

"So? I'd just say I was expecting a call from an important cupcake. What's up?"

"You know anything about the Greek letter omega?"

"Tons. It's the symbol for oxygen. It has a ton of mathematical meanings, too. Then there's the alpha and the omega--you know, from Christianity. The first and the last."

"I don't think this other thing is an alpha. Is there a letter which is three parallel lines, the middle one shorter?"

"Which direction? Up and down like a pipe, or horizontal like an equals sign?"

"Horizontal, I think. Judging from the way the other one is oriented."

"Okay. I think there is." Jim hears the scratch of a pen. "Yeah, that looks familiar. Xi, maybe?"

"You know anything about that one?"

"Not really, no. Not offhand. I can ask my friend Charlotte, she's in classics now and she owes me one."

Jim doesn't ask what she owes him for. "Okay, yeah. Could you?"

"No problem. I'll go by there now. What's happening? What are we doing?"

Megan's coming back and Jim, not wanting to be caught taking her advice, quickly says, "I gotta go. I'll tell you later."

"Until tonight, my spicy gingersnap."

"Who was that on the phone?" Megan asks meaningfully.

"Wrong number. Newspaper subscription."

"Well, you two." Simon strides over to them, pocketing his own phone. "Looks like you two got yourselves a high-profile case. This woman's uncle is a city councilman."

"Oh, I'm not on duty today, sir," says Megan.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

Megan points her coffee over the wrought-iron fence, to a residential street corner. "That's my house."

"Well, go back there! I don't need rubberneckers on my crime scene," and as if reminded something, Simon turns to Jim and demands, "Where's Sandburg?"

"How should I know?" Jim says guiltily, jerking his hand away from the phone in his jacket pocket. He folds his arms.

Simon blinks. "What do you mean? You always know."

"Why does everyone think there's an umbilical cord between me and Sandburg? He's doing his thing, I'm doing mine."

"They're having a little domestic spat," Megan speculates.

Jim whirls around to face her. "If you're accusing me of something, just say it."

Jim knows he's gone too far, tipped his hand, because Megan looks honestly confused. "Did you forget to take your meds this morning, Ellison?"

"Go home, Conner," says Simon, and this time she does, giving Jim one last sidelong "what the hell" look before she steps away. Simon rubs his temples. "You want to be with Rafe on this one?"

"I work alone."

"You do? Could've fooled me."

"Hey, I worked alone for three years."

"Yeah, but in the last four, you've sort of fallen out of the habit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Simon holds up a hand, simultaneous surrender and warning. "I don't care what you do, but I want a suspect in custody by the end of the day. And Jim?"

"Yes, sir?"

"When you talk to Sandburg, make sure you get his input on those symbols on the palms."

"Yes, sir," says Jim wearily.

  


*

"Well, Detective Ellison," Brackett's voice thundered cheerfully through the too-loud speaker. "How do you like your accommodation so far?"

"Very nice," said Jim, determined not to give Brackett any kind of satisfaction. "Relaxing."

"I thought you would think so. Isn't it nice to be far from the madding crowd? No people with their noises and their smells. Alex liked it quite a bit."

"It was beautiful and pure," said Alex, her eyes crazy.

Figured.

"Where are you?" Jim asked the camera. "Why don't you come here and talk? What's the matter, don't have the balls to face me like a man?"

"Oh, Detective, you know that wouldn't be fair. If you were just a man, I wouldn't go to all this trouble."

"Don't put yourself out on my account."

"You're funny, do you know that, Ellison? Well? Aren't you curious to know where you are?"

Jim sat down on the bed. The best way to deal with bullies was to ignore them.

"Of course not. I'll tell you anyway," said Brackett, sounding amused. "Welcome to your new home for as long as you choose not to cooperate with me. Clearview Penitentiary--do you like the irony in that name? It fell into disuse in early part of this century because the sensory deprivation was deemed too cruel. Of course I knew we would have to step it up for you."

"What do you want, Brackett?"

"You, Jim," Brackett smiled brilliantly. "And you, Alex." Alex smiled again. "I want your souls."

"Great," Jim muttered. That was all good and clear, then. He tried to bring it down to brass tacks. "You need more crimes committed, you could've just asked."

"And you would have said no, and I would have had to hold everybody in the world hostage again. You'll understand my reluctance to be holding everybody in the world hostage all the time. Quite frankly, it's a bitch to set up. And I don't just want you for one night, Ellison, I want you forever."

"I don't belong to anybody," said Jim.

"Don't you? How convenient for me. Nobody will be looking for you."

Jim took a breath, willing himself not to ask about Blair. Had he been ambushed, was he here, what did Brackett know about them. Obviously he knew that Blair mattered to Jim; he had used him, the possibility that he was hurt, as bait. "I guess not," he said evenly.

"What about Blair?" said Alex.

Jim closed his eyes, trying desperately not to reveal that only just hearing the name made his heart skip a beat. If they had to ask, that meant they probably didn't have Blair prisoner somewhere. That was something, anyway. He only had to worry about himself.

He opened his eyes again, and realized Alex and probably Brackett were looking at him. Waiting for an answer. He tried a casual, "What about him?" which didn't sound so casual at all.

"The truth is, Ellison, I don't think your anthropologist poses much of a threat to me. I know he fancies himself your spiritual guide, but he's really only just a man. You know that, don't you? There is no divine entity. He is not chosen."

"And I guess you think _you_ are."

"No. Not in that sense. But, like you, I have a genetic advantage. I'm a genius. You know that. When it comes to making decisions about the good of the world, I'm the world's best bet. And when it comes to protecting me, reporting to me, and carrying out my will, you and Alex are my best bet."

"What do you want to be--grand supreme leader of the world?" said Jim. "That's a little ambitious, even for you."

"The world? No. Not yet. A nation, yes. It will start small, but it will grow."

"It's going to be so wonderful, Jim. We are the future," said Alex, clasping her hands. "The evolution of humanity. We are the first recruits in an unstoppable army."

"Recruitment? That's what this is?" Jim gestured around, and frowned at the camera. "You couldn't just offer me a free T-shirt?"

"The deprivation chamber may be unpleasant," said Alex, sounding scornful, "but it's necessary for the cleansing process. To heighten the senses and release you of the trivial concerns of your former normal existence."

"Trivial concerns like my friends, my job, my... my..."

"Blair," Alex mimicked Jim, strangely perceptive. "I don't know how you can live with all those normals, like you're one of them. They don't understand what it's like to be truly connected."

"Of course, without him, we wouldn't be here today," put in Brackett's voice. "So we have him to thank for that, anyway. It was his notes that led me to the lovely and fascinating Miss Barnes. Don't get me wrong, I was intrigued when I discovered you, but when I learned there were two of you-well. It simply seemed wrong not to gather you together for some greater purpose."

Jim silently cursed Blair for keeping his notes on an Internet-accessible computer. His infinite faith in the firewalls built by his friend Dave was obviously misplaced.

"Yes. His notes have been invaluable. You have no secrets from me, Jim."

Jim jerked his head up and stared at the camera. What _had_ Blair been writing in his notes?

Alex raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," said Brackett's voice, smug. "I know all about the sixth sense."

Jim was too confused to put a poker face on that. His confusion must have been obvious.

"Don't tell me Mr. Sandburg didn't tell you," said the voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Jim, too tired to lie.

Alex snorted. "You're a bad liar."

Jim stared at the corner of where the walls met the ceiling. He wanted to go home.

"It looks like he's sick of talking," said Brackett. "Come on, Alex."

Alex turned obediently and went to the door. Jim expected some kind of high-tech pressure-lock system, but whatever it was, it was soundless. Alex pushed the door open easily, walked out, and closed it behind her. Jim realized it might have been open the whole time, if only he had chosen to leave mid-conversation. The thought infuriated him for some reason. Brackett wasn't even trying. He heard Alex messing with a lock on the other side of the door, and he lunged at it.

The door opened easily; Alex hadn't even tried to force it shut. But as Jim threw it open, he immediately stopped short, blinking in the blinding light of the outer hallway. This was all the time Alex needed. He saw her face, and then his vision went white, and from a point on his hip a jillion volts of electricity shot through his body.

*

"Jesus."

Jim looks up guiltily at the mirror and sees Blair reflected behind him. It's not often he's surprised by Blair, but the loft is whirling with warmth and garlic smells from dinner and general Blair-scent everywhere, and anyway, Jim was distracted. He hastily tapes the bandage back down over his side and lowers his shirt.

"It's just a scratch," he mutters. "I'll take some aspirin, I'll be good to go."

"Real aspirin? Doesn't it knock you out? I thought we agreed no more commercial medications until we figure out the weird effects."

"Fine!" says Jim, slamming the bottle back down onto the sink.

"I mean--if you really need it," Blair backpedals.

"Whatever. It's not that bad anyway. Come on. I'm good to go."

"Where?"

"We have plans, right?" says Jim, pushing past Blair in the doorway, careful not to brush his injury against the doorframe, and trying to stride naturally. "I thought you only had the lab for one night."

"Are you kidding? I'm not running tests on you tonight."

"I'm fine," Jim insists, wondering at himself: he never thought he'd see the day he'd be begging to be a test subject. But he'd rather let Blair win than the pain.

"No way," says Blair. "I'm testing the extent of your abilities, remember? I can't test you when you're not in top condition. It's unscientific."

"I hate to break it to you," says Jim, "but most of your tests are unscientific." He pops a grape into his mouth. "Come on, I'm good to go."

"Oh yeah?" Blair reaches out and taps him just above his wound, and in spite of himself Jim groans aloud and trips forward, grabbing onto the kitchen counter to steady himself.

"Shit! I'm sorry! I didn't realize it was that bad. Oh, man. Come on. Let me help."

"I can walk," says Jim, but he doesn't resist much when Blair comes round to his good side and slips himself under Jim's arm, steering him toward the couch.

"I shoulda been there today."

"You couldn't've helped. You were better off doing your own work."

Blair rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right, the world-shattering import of the thesis progress plan. Well, I'll help you now. Lie down."

"I'm not an invalid, Sandburg," Jim says, attempting to keep the scowling to a minimum as he eases himself down into a sitting position.

"Are you dialed down?"

"Yeah, I'm dialed fucking down," Jim snaps. "It still--" He stops.

"Hurts?" Blair finishes, a gently teasing expression. "Okay. Shall we try some pain management techniques?"

"Blow me," says Jim, hopefully.

"Normally, I'd say that's a good idea. The body can only handle so many sensations at once, so you want to replace pain with pleasure. But your body takes in a lot more sensation than the average person's. Here." He tosses Jim a small carved piece of rosewood. "Bite down on this."

"What? I'm not in that much pain."

"Just do it."

Jim sits on the couch with a piece of wood in his mouth, feeling stupid, as Blair dims the lights and sets out candles. Every Blair ceremony seems to involve dimming the lights and setting out candles: meditation, experimentation, select instances of sex or dinner or particularly anticipated TV shows. Jim's never seen him set out crystals before, though. He sets them in a semicircle on the coffee table, arranging them carefully, sometimes swapping one for another.

Jim removes the wood from between his teeth. "Crystals?" he says. "Isn't that Naomi stuff?"

"I got these from her, yeah."

"Didn't you tell her that crystal energy force stuff is a bunch of hooey con men feed to gullible people who want to believe in the unexplained?"

"I was closed-minded," says Blair. "There's more on heaven and earth than is dreamed of in my philosophy. Anyway, I did some research on the topic. Turns out it's totally well-documented. I know how it works. Bite down, now."

"Bite me," says Jim, but he returns the wood to his mouth.

Blair waves a hand over the little crystal tableau, nods with satisfaction, and turns to Jim. "I've been doing some training in alternative therapies. It's actually really interesting stuff. I've been learning all about the energy fields that surround people." Blair hovers his hand about half an inch above Jim's arm, as if he can feel the energy. "Do you mind if I take off your shirt?"

Jim grins into the wooden thingy. This is getting to be more like it. He lets Blair help him lift off his shirt. Then Blair smooths his hands in front of Jim's chest, and begins to carefully run them--slowly, steadily--over the air just above Jim's left bicep. "You know Michiko Tsukino, in my department? Well, her grandfather is this really skilled healer in this art called reiki. It's all about energy. When you're in pain, the energy all around you is, like, ruffled. But you can learn to smooth it out." Blair makes little smoothing motions over Jim's shoulder.

Jim gives Blair an incredulous stare and says around the wood, "Rr you assaging y aura?"

Blair smiles. "When people talk about someone's 'aura', they're usually referring to a visual, paranormal sort of radiation. This is different, it's about energy--think of it like a magnetic field. Western medicine has documented this, by, the way. Doctors call it 'non-contact therapeutic touch,' and it works really well with pain patients. I can show you the studies if you want."

Jim shrugs. He can't think of many things he'd rather do less right now than try to swim through some medical journal.

"Just relax," Blair murmurs, gazing with steady, scientific confidence at Jim's face as his fingers caress the air just above his skin.

Jim feels the warmth radiating from his hands and he's certain, every single moment, that they're about to make contact, but they never do. Jim lifts his head slightly, mainly to try to throw Blair off, make him touch by accident, but Blair just anticipates him, works with him, runs his hands down close under Jim's chin and slowly over his neck and down to his chest. Jim exhales slowly.

Blair concentrates his energy for a long time over the site of Jim's injury. Oddly, it does feel like this is doing something, more than he would have expected it to. It does feel like Blair's hands are having an effect. The pain is still there, but it's more bearable; and his body feels odd, tingly, where Blair has non-touched it.

However, it's hard to relax, as Blair instructs, when the maddening closeness of Blair's hands is only building tension. Jim swallows as Blair scoots to his knees in front of the couch and works on Jim's lower torso, his hips, hovers his fingers just above Jim's crotch. God, he's getting turned on by no touch at all.

Blair moves onto his thighs and back up to his hips and then says, "Lie down. I'm going to take off your pants, okay?" and Jim tries not to grin because this is a serious business, the holy art of whatever it's called, this isn't fun and sexy time. But when Jim kicks off his shoes and Blair unbuckles his belt and pulls down both his pants and his underwear, he knows Blair's got to be able to see the evidence of his rising arousal.

Blair doesn't react, just very studiously takes up his massage. It's easier to feel his warmth now without the clothes between them. His hands feel like burning things radiating heat over his inner thighs. Jim closes his eyes.

Then all at once there's the very real and firm pressure of Blair's hands actually pressing down on his thighs and his lips, his mouth, so hot and wet and there, against his suddenly-very-hard cock. "Hrrrh!" says Jim, gritting his teeth, biting down hard on the wood, bucking into the unbelievably tight pressure of Blair's hands and mouth all around him, everywhere. Blair's sucks and strokes are hard, so hard, and so satisfying, like finally scratching an itch that's been bothering you your entire life. Then he's over the edge and spilling into Blair's hands, and then he's lying there, gasping, happy, and Blair's wiping up, and then covering him with a blanket.

"Do you want anything? Aspirin?"

"Nah. I feel good," Jim smiles. "I think you ruined it, though. The non-contact whatever."

"It's okay," says Blair. "It was all placebo effect anyway."

"What?" says Jim, sitting up, and, ow!

"Hey, hey, relax."

"You mean you were just waving your arms around in front of me?"

"Sure. I don't know reiki. You kidding? Why would I? It's been tested and it's proved it doesn't work better than placebo effect."

"You tricked me!" says Jim.

"Hey, man, placebo effect _works!_ " says Blair, grinning.

"It was all made up? The crystals, this stupid thing?" Jim picks up the piece of wood which has fallen onto the cushion and drops it onto the table.

"No, that was a different idea. See, you were frowning and grumping all night, and I don't blame you. You're in pain, why would you smile? But, see, you feel better if you're smiling. It's true, they've done studies. Physiological manifestations of emotion can increase your actual feeling of that emotion. So, like, if you're sweating and you're tense, some part of you thinks, 'I must be scared,' and you get scared. You're always aware of what's going on in your body, so my theory was that it would work even stronger for you. Actually, it's part of a whole big theory I have about the effect of Sentinel senses on the processing of emotion, but it's hard to make statements about that because there's only one of you and you know, individual variation, right? You might just be a very emotional person."

"I'm a what?" says Jim.

"Anyway, the point is, when you're smiling you think, 'I must be happy,' and you get happy. When you're biting down on something, you have to smile. Are you happy?"

"I hate you," says Jim, reaching up toward him. Blair drops down and settles himself carefully beside Jim, jostling him in a way which doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did earlier in the evening. Blair puts a guiding hand on Jim's jaw and kisses his mouth. They kiss lazily for a long time.

"You want me to help you upstairs?" Blair murmurs finally. "Get some sleep?"

"Nah," says Jim. "I want to stay right here."

*

Being unchained in a dark, soundless cell was not much less boring than being chained up in one. He could run in small circles. He could do push-ups. He could spend hours unsuccessfully trying to fit his fingers into the crack of the thick steel door. He could look for loose stones on the ground to fashion into some kind of lockpicking or digging tool (there were none). He could sing a medley of sea shanties. He could throw himself at the door until his shoulders ached. He could scratch at the walls until his fingers bled. He could scratch at the walls _while_ singing sea shanties.

After that, he kind of ran out of the really fun activities.

Brackett still wasn't letting him sleep. Sometimes the jungle drums would come on. Sometimes Brackett himself would speak over the loudspeaker: "Ah, ah, ahh!" Once he awoke to Brackett's rousing rendition of "Drunken Sailor." Jim was so excited to have a source of entertainment that he joined in: "Way, hay, up she rises, ear-lie in the morning!"

He realized he had no idea what time it was in the outside world, or what day. This made him laugh maniacally. His brain was obviously coming unglued from disuse. Brackett laughed, too, and said, "Tell me you don't love this!"

"I don't," said Jim. "What I really love is sounds of the seventies. I been around for a long long year..."

Jim broke off when he realized he was singing alone again. He lay his head down on the floor and wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible to die from boredom.

*

"Your move."

"I know. I'm thinking." Jim examines the board carefully. He knows he has a bingo if only he can find a good place for one. Surely there is a way to use that free "S". It's near a triple word score, too.

Blair sighs, aggrieved.

"You're the one who wanted to play," says Jim.

"I do want to play, but not if you're going to take fifty years over every move."

"Not all of us are boy geniuses."

"You know you could kick my ass if you wanted to. You're just making me suffer on purpose."

"If you're bored, you can do something else."

"Maybe I will." Blair gets up from the table abruptly and looks around the loft, hand on his chin, thinking. "Now, what shall I do." He begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"That's not what I meant."

"What?" says Blair innocently. "I'm a little warm."

Jim turns back to the board pointedly.

He can hear Blair messing with his belt as he steps backward into his room. "I'll just be hanging out in here. Let me know when you're ready."

"This has got to be against the rules," Jim protests, but he's already shrugging out of his T-shirt.

He stands up and gives one last look at the board. Blair's lying when he says Jim's better than him; he's made all these impossibly great moves, words like "SASPARILLA" and "PIZZAZZ" and "MY UNCLE'S PURPLE HAT." Jim wonders vaguely why he thought he had a bingo. His rack is all "I"s.

Jim is lying in Blair's bed and Blair's arms are around him. He arcs his back and jerks his hips upward, his cock tight in Blair's palm. Only Blair's arms are around him, so it's not Blair's hand, it's his own. Only Blair's arms aren't around him and he's alone.

Jim is lying in Blair's bed, alone. The room is dark. Lightning flashes and Jim's heart starts to pound. Someone in the doorway.

Jim is sitting at the counter, reading a book. It's not a very interesting book and Jim can't concentrate. The door opens and cold air bursts in from outside. Blair comes in and unzips his parka, stamps out his boots. Jim sighs deeply with relief.

"I missed you," Jim says.

"You did?"

"Of course. Have some eggs," Jim offers, nodding toward the kitchen.

"Ah, sure. Don't mind if I do. Here?" Blair gestures vaguely at the stove.

"Yeah, right there," says Jim, wondering what other pan of eggs he thought Jim meant.

"Mmm. Delicious." Blair wafts the smell up to his nose, but doesn't take any food. He turns and takes a step toward Jim, reaching out his hand. "Oh, dear. What have you done to yourself?"

"Hm?" Jim blinks. The sun streaming in through the windows is incredibly bright, and Blair is speaking so loudly. His head pounds.

"You're bleeding."

"Oh. That." Jim looks down at his fingertips, scraped and raw. "That's nothing."

Blair takes both of Jim's hands gently in his, turns them over, tsking with concern. "Poor you."

Jim pulls one hand away, reaches, out and touches Blair's hair. It's soft and smooth under his fingers. Blair smiles at him, eyes twinkling. "Jim?"

"Mm?"

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," he whispers.

Jim places a finger beneath Blair's chin, tilting his head up, guiding him toward Jim. Blair's eyes widen as Jim leans in. The kiss is strange. Blair's lips are cool and still beneath Jim's. His face is smooth, angular where Jim expects it to be soft. He tastes strange, smells strange, artificial, some awful new soap or cologne. Jim lets him go, feeling strangely unsatisfied.

"You want me." Blair's voice sounds like it's coming from a long way away.

"Yeah. I..."

Jim puts his head in his hands. Something's wrong. Everything's splitting into a million pieces, like a kaleidoscope. "I, uh..."

"You need me. Tell me you need me."

"I need you," says Jim. "More than anything."

"Glad to hear it." Blair smiles like a snake. He leans in close, his hands warm and gentle on the back of Jim's neck, and again his scent is all wrong, all wrong. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me. Tell me about the sixth sense."

Jim blinked, confused. "I don't know what that is."

"He didn't tell you? Tsk." Brackett shook his head. "And here I thought he trusted you."

*

Jim snapped awake as the door opened. Brackett walked in with a bottle of water in his hand.

"You were just here," said Jim, confused.

"I was?" Brackett smiled with his cheeks, handing Jim the bottle. "You must have been dreaming about me."

Jim drank long and deep, avoiding telling Brackett he was right.

"You know," said Brackett thoughtfully, "most people ignore what their subconscious tells them. Don't trust it, because they don't know how they know what they know. That's a mistake. Especially for Sentinels. You have far more information than you realize."

"Sounds like something Sandburg would say," Jim remarked without thinking.

"Sandburg," Brackett repeated. "Interesting."

Jim swallowed. The sound of Blair's name in Brackett's mouth made him feel uneasy. "What?"

Brackett shook his head. "Nothing. What did I do in the dream?"

"Uh..." Jim shook his head, unable to sort out what had been dream-Brackett and what had been dream-Blair. Desperately hoping he hadn't kissed dream-Brackett. "You wanted to know about the sixth sense."

"Hm. You know," Brackett said, as if he was just thinking of it, "that might turn out to be important. If I'm going to help you and Alex..."

"I don't want your help," said Jim automatically, but it felt like going through the motions.

"It's up to you. I only came to tell you you're free."

"What?"

"I'm letting you out of your room. You can go anywhere you want on this wing."

"Oh, the wing. Thanks," said Jim, doing his best to sound sarcastic, and not eager.

Brackett turned back and opened the door. Yellow light flooded into the room. As bright as he'd made the cell, the hallway was brighter. He nodded in a direction. "Alex's cell is down at the south end. You'll have dinner with her tonight."

Food! Jim had to force himself to roll his eyes like he just didn't care. "What a treat."

"It will be. I'm ordering Peruvian food."

Interesting. So they were still in or near a major metropolitan area. Or else they were in Peru. But it didn't feel like Peru. Didn't smell like it.

"Whenever you're ready." Brackett left the door open and walked purposefully down the hall.

Jim just sat frozen for a moment, unsure if this was really happening.

Then he stood and walked hesitantly toward the doorway.

He squinted under the lights and looked around. He was in a long corridor lined with steel doors. His own door was only differentiated by the black tape over the keyhole.

Brackett must have been using it to block out any stray beams of light. He was really pretty clever about all of this.

Jim tried the nearest door to the right. It opened easily. Inside, as he'd suspected, was nothing but an amplifier-sized white noise generator, humming away. He stepped into the cell, feeling like an idiot, because he just knew the doors would slam shut behind him. They didn't. He hit the power button and then waited. Nothing happened. No warning alarm, no admonishment from Brackett. He walked back out into the hall, feeling hazy and dreamlike. He'd forgotten what it was like to be free.

Once all the white noise machines were off he could easily hear Brackett and Alex talking down the hall.

"Lincoln with the fifteenth president of the United States." That was Brackett.

"Ah... Yes... wait, wasn't he?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know. This lie detector stuff doesn't work on you. You're too good."

"I'm flattered."

Brackett was teaching Alex to tell when people were lying? In spite of himself, Jim was impressed. Blair had read up on what signs to look for, and he and Jim had gotten pretty far, but Jim was still spotty at best in the art of lie detection.

Just to be defiant, Jim turned away from the voices and walked to the other end of the hall. He could hear another white noise machine beyond the door marked "Main." But that door was shut fast, and no amount of tugging, kicking, or throwing himself against it would open it.

Well, that was pretty much as expected.

He didn't want to go back to his own cell, so he followed the voices to Alex's.

"Well, that's not fair. I know you're lying."

"Am I?"

"No fair! That's a question."

"So?"

"Questions can't be lies. They're questions."

"Interesting philosophical point."

"I think you're lying right now. You're actually bored out of your skull."

Brackett laughed. "You're projecting. Do you want a break?"

"No, I can keep going."

"Good girl."

Jim felt awkward standing outside the door. It didn't seem like a good time to intrude. He considered knocking, and that felt foolish, too. What if they asked, "What do you want?" He didn't want anything. He didn't even like these people.

Alex solved his problem for him. "You know he's standing right outside the door."

"Come on in, Jim!" Brackett called. He sounded pleased.

There was nothing to do but open the door and walk in.

Alex's cell was the same size as Jim's, but it seemed bigger. She had been here long enough to decorate. The walls were adorned with posters of waterfalls and rainforest scenes. She had a large potted plant in one corner and a pot of geraniums hanging from the ceiling. The padded back wall was tacked with postcards of famous landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower and London Bridge--sites they hoped to capture one day?--and one disturbingly glamorous snapshot of Brackett leaning against a large rock and smiling. Alex sat on her purple bedspread, cradling a fuzzy pillow. Brackett sat across from her in a chair.

"Would you like to join us?" Brackett turned over his shoulder and smiled at Jim.

"It would be lost on him," said Alex. "Jim isn't as advanced as I am."

"You've had time. He has to start somewhere. "

Jim felt vaguely insulted. What did they think he had been doing all these years with Blair, twiddling his thumbs? "I'm pretty advanced," he said.

Brackett grinned. "I'll bet. Why don't you give it a shot? Tell me if I'm lying." Brackett looked at him very seriously and said, "San Diego is west of Reno."

"I know that one," said Jim. "It's not true. But even if I didn't know that, I could tell you were lying."

"How?" Alex demanded.

"He smiled. It was less than second, but it was there. Like he was thinking, 'He'll never get this one.'"

Brackett gave the exact same smile.

"Oh, he's always doing that," said Alex. "Give him another one. You'll see."

"All right." Brackett looked right in Jim's eyes, unblinking, and said, "I mean you no harm."

There was nothing that time. No sign that he was insincere.

"Alex is right," Jim said after a second. "You're trained in controlling your expressions. You're not a good subject for this."

"Fair enough. Say something to him, Alex."

"You're ugly," Alex announced promptly.

Jim glanced down at her hands. She was slightly rubbing one hand against the other. Sweaty palms. A sign of either lying or attraction, and either way. "Lie."

"A matter of opinion," Brackett put in. "Unverifiable. Give him another."

"It's raining."

Involuntary dilation of the pupils. "Lie," said Jim. "How do you know what the weather's like outside?"

Brackett grinned. "Show him."

Alex jumped up. At Brackett's nod, Jim fell into step behind her.

*

"Let's go, let's go, let's go," Jim calls up the stairs, clapping his hands. "Get your ass in gear, Sandburg. We got a long drive ahead of us if we're gonna make the monastery by nightfall and we've gotta hit the road now if we want to hit that farm stand."

Blair appears at the top of the staircase, still fluffing his hair out from under the collar of his T-shirt. "Don't forget, before we go, we gotta take out the compost."

"What do you think I'm standing here holding it for?" Jim lifts the Tupperware. It still stinks of decomposition through two layers of plastic.

"Okay, let's hit the... Jim? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Jim grabs the bag of clubs with his free hand and shakes his head. "Just wondering. How do you know when you've joined a cult?"

Blair hefts his duffel over his shoulder to free his hand and cuffs Jim on the head.

*

Alex had a key to the door at the end of the wing. She led him up two sets of stairs, unlocked another set of doors, and pushed open a door to the outside. Outside!

The prison courtyard couldn't have been more than about twenty feet square, with scraggly, dying grass, four cinderblock walls, and a ceiling of curved chain link and barbed wire. Still, Jim felt exhilarated. The sunshine, though diffused through the clouds, was bright and felt natural and healthful and strong. The wind smelled like earth and pine and rain and freedom.  
They were still somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. It just smelled like home. Jim felt like taking a handful of dirt and running it through his fingers lovingly. He restrained himself, in view of his company.

"I come out here to practice my wall climbing," Alex explained. "This wall looks flat, but if you sort of stand back and squint, you can see the slightest indentations, and if you know how to use them..."

"Handholds." Jim nodded. "Brackett lets you do this?"

"Let me? He showed me how."

Alex eyed the wall, and then took a running start and jumped up, clinging to the apparently smooth wall like an insect.

"You'll learn that I'm a practical man," said Brackett from the stairwell, moments before he appeared in the doorway. "I don't believe that you require endless documentation of your powers, or even complete understanding of them. Life is short, and it should be lived with purpose. What's the point of having an advantage over your fellow human beings if you can't put it to good use in the pursuit of a noble goal?"

Jim turned from him back to Alex. She was halfway up to the barbed wire, and it was easy to imagine her dressed in black, rope coiled over her arm, empty loot sack dangling from her belt. Dodging laser security beams, sight-judging the most expensive sapphires in the museum. "I don't think I want any part of your goals."

"Don't speak so soon. Do you know the name Jason Stromwell?"

"Crime boss," said Jim instantly, surprised. "A terrorist, really. Half the illegal automatic weapons in Cascade and Vancouver can be traced back to him, but he's untouchable. Believe me, we've tried."

"You could. You're capable," Brackett said. "You were tied up with bureaucracy. The FBI took it from you, the case got tossed to the Mounties when he crossed the border. The CIA had a file on him six inches thick, but they never managed to do anything. People like you and me, we're not meant to be stooges of the system. We're better than that. Have you ever thought that you could take down the bad guys if only they just left you alone?"

"You're a bad guy," Jim pointed out.

"No, Jim, I'm on your side. I just do things a little differently. For example, tonight, after dinner, I'm going to Stromwell's halfway house in the woods--only a few miles from here--and I'm going to take him down."

Jim stared at him as he spoke. There was no sign that he was lying.

"Right. Sure," said Jim tentatively.

"You doubt me?"

"I don't doubt you want to. I doubt you'll succeed."

"You should know by now I can do anything I put my mind to. I'm a winner, Jim."

Jim looked around. "You have a tank stashed around here somewhere?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. Why do you ask?"

"Stromwell will have guards. And an arsenal. What have you got?"

"My not inconsiderable wits, for one," said Brackett. "And, more importantly, a Sentinel."

*

"I told you, I don't know."

"Do you need to hear the sample sounds again?"

"No, Sandburg, I do not need to hear the sample sounds. I just don't know about any of this music stuff... I quit piano when I was nine."

"I know, but just take a wild guess, okay? Total shot in the dark."

"What good will that do?"

"Humor me. Here's the note again." Blair presses a button on his tape deck.

Jim sighs and listens. "Uh... It's kind of like a one, I guess, but it's not at all. Forget I said that. It's lower. It's lower than a seven, I think. Why did I say a one?"

Blair can barely contain himself. "Jim! That's amazing!"

"What?"

"It is a one--or rather, a C. See, the numbers I gave you correspond to the notes, right? It's a C major scale. C, D, E, F, G, A, B."

"One can't be A?"

"The point is, I just played you another C--an octave lower. You knew what it was. You think you forgot all the music stuff, but clearly you internalized some of it. More importantly, I was right! Your hearing definitely gives you perfect pitch."

"Yeah?" Jim takes off the headphones. Blair's bouncing in his seat, and it's hard not to catch some of his enthusiasm. "So what does that mean--what can I do?"

Blair reaches behind the couch and picks up his guitar. "You ever want to be in a band?"

"Not really."

"Oh, sure you did. Everyone did." He beats on the body of the guitar with his hand, bobbing his head. "You know this, right? Some classic Stones." He strums with force. "Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name... Come on, Jim!"

"Uh..." No point in resisting. It will only take longer. "But what's confusing you is the nature of my game," Jim says, more than sings.

"Whoo whoo!" Blair nods like he's a goddamn rock star.

"Just like every cop is a criminal and all the sinners saints..." He's getting into it now, surprised by how many of the lyrics he somehow knows.

And just like that, he's singing alone. Blair claps hand over his strings and shakes his head. "Okay, yeah, so you're totally off-key. I mean, we both are. Can you hear that?"

Jim shrugs, weirdly embarrassed, even though this wasn't his idea. "I guess it doesn't sound right, but I never said I knew how to sing."

"You could probably pick it up pretty quick, though, if you wanted to."

"I don't want to," says Jim, frustrated. "So how exactly does this help me?"

Blair shrugs, reaching over his guitar for his notebook and pencil on the coffee table. "I don't know, but you never know, right?"

"So, essentially, this was a complete waste of time."

"Why does everything have to be so goal-oriented? What's wrong with information for information's sake?"

Which is Blair's way of confirming that, yes, it was a waste of time. Jim gets up. "I'm gonna go do some goddamn work," he announces, "for paying the rent's sake."

*

Jim perched in a tree, peering through the darkness to the roof of a small shack, barely more than a lean-to. Two guards patrolled. A short distance away, a figure in black crept toward an armored tank.

"Three. Two. One. Hit the ground," Jim murmured, knowing Alex would hear him.

She disappeared into the brush as a new guard crossed from the back door to the car.

There were moments when Jim had to wonder at the twists of fate. Hours ago, he had been going slowly crazy in sensory deprivation. Only a few days, maybe a week, before, he had been bickering with Blair in the loft. Now he was helping two people he didn't trust take out a terrorist.

Everything had happened so fast. He reminded himself of his reasons for cooperating.

It got him out of the fucking prison.

It got him into some fucking clothes.

As long as he had the chance, he might as well make the best of this opportunity to get rid of Stromwell. He'd been trying for ages, him and the rest of the Cascade PD. Jim, ever alert to the possibility of betrayal, had confirmed Stromwell's identity when they got within zoom-in range of the cabin. It was him, all right. And Brackett's desire to take him out seemed genuine, even if it was probably for stupid reasons--ego and thrills rather than a genuine opposition to illegal arms dealing.

Finally, Jim knew what Brackett apparently didn't want to believe: Stromwell was serious. If he so much as suspected an intruder, his guards would shoot to kill, and it wasn't like they had a dearth of weapons. Jim had no desire to be stuck back at the compound while Brackett and Alex got themselves killed.

Brackett was right about one thing; this was easier without orders and restrictions from up top. No waiting for backup. No waiting for authorization. Jim watched as Alex jumped up behind yet another guard and knocked him on the back of the head. He crumpled, and she dragged him behind the car.

"Three of them consulting now. I guess they've caught on. They're all coming together. Get a running start into the woods. I'm coming down to help you."

"Take your time," Alex whispered into the grass. "I've got--"

Gunshot.

*

"Auugh!"

Jim wakes up mid-shout, cold sweat clinging to his brow, fingers gripping handfuls of blanket at his stomach Just a dream. Just a dream. He's alone in his room. Blair's side of the bed is cool.

He rubs his temples. He can still see pools of red when he closes his eyes and with a sickening lurch he realizes why he's thinking about blood. He can smell it.

He can hear a heartbeat downstairs. Footsteps moving around.

He grabs his pistol from the side table before he runs to the doorway.

He breathes a deep sigh of relief when he identifies the figure moving around the kitchen.

He slumps in the doorway. "Blair."

"Hey, Jim. Couldn't sleep?" Blair sprinkles the frying pan with parsley. "Me neither. My body clock's all fucked up from that stakeout. So I thought, you know what I need, is some steak. You want one?"

"Uh... I don't know." Jim looks at the gun in his hand. It suddenly seems alien and out of place, like an artifact from one of Blair's dig sites. His heart is still pounding, adrenaline coursing uselessly through his veins.

Blair glances up at him, amused. "Well, you know, get back to me."

*

"Ha ha ha!"

Through the wind whipping against his ears as he ran, Jim heard Alex laugh. The bullet missed her--maybe she saw its trajectory and dodged, maybe she heard the weapon cocking before it fired, maybe the guy was just a lousy shot, but either way, she was safe, and Jim found himself relieved. Maybe she was a homicidal bitch, but he still didn't want her to die. Not on his watch.

Jim popped out from behind a tree just in time to see Alex step on one guy's windpipe as another popped the trunk of the Jeep and yanked out a semiautomatic. Jim grabbed the first thing he could find, a branch, and whipped it at the guy. He took advantage of the moment of surprise to run in, elbow his face, disarm him.

He pointed the gun at Alex's attackers but she didn't need his help. Four guns lay spread across the floor of the clearing, and she was dodging beneath punches, jumping over kicks. She whipped a low roundhouse kick under their feet, knocking them both down, and arose with two guns in her hands.

"What the fuck--?"

Instantly Jim's and Alex's guns were all pointed at Jason Stromwell, who stood alone in the doorway to the cabin, two pistols extended in front of him. Brackett appeared behind him, armed with a rocket launcher, lifting a "shush" finger to his lips.

Jim widened his eyes, shook his head slightly.

Stromwell cocked his pistols at Alex.

Jim squinted, aimed, and shot.

Stromwell yelped as his arm jerked back involuntarily and the gun flew out of his hand, propelled by the force of the bullet's hit.

Immediately Brackett bashed him on the back of the head with the butt of his enormous gun.

"Mission accomplished," Brackett grinned at Jim.

Alex bent over Stromwell's body, producing a syringe from somewhere in her utility vest. She uncapped it and squirted some of the liquid into the air.

"And with zero deaths," Brackett continued behind him. "You're a good member of the team, Jim."

Jim looked down at the gun in his hand. He looked up at the dirt road, winding into the darkness of the forest. He suddenly realized he could have gone. Could have up and walked off, at any time.

He felt a pinch at his neck and turned to see Brackett looking at him sympathetically, holding a syringe of his own. "Sorry, Jim," he said. "I'm afraid I don't fully trust you just yet."

"Fair enuh," Jim murmured, his voice slurring as darkness overcame him.

*

"I'm home! Jim! I got you a present."

"Blair--"

"Well, technically, you bought you a present, since I found twenty bucks in your jacket--"

"Blair!"

"--but good news, because I went by the drugstore, they had the extra-ultra-super-sensitive--"

"Sandburg, look who's here!"

Blair finally looks up from his grocery bag. Jim gestures at Megan, who's standing beside him at the bottom of the stairs.

"Moisturizer," Blair finishes, closing the bag hastily.

"He's buying you moisturizer?" Megan shakes her head. "Every day is a slumber party for you two, isn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jim mutters.

"I think she's calling us hyperactive little girls," Blair interprets, all smiles. "You want something to drink, Megan?"

"No, I'm not staying. Just a consult on the Carusso case."

"Oh, man. Yeah. What did the housekeeper say?"

"Oh, it was a dead end, but I've got a new lead now, the sister--actually, I'd better get on it. I'm sure Jim will fill you in." She heads for the door, giving Blair an auntie-like pinch on the cheek as she passes by. "Don't stay up too late, ladies. School tomorrow."

"Close one," says Blair the instant the door clicks shut.

Jim sinks onto the couch irritably. "Been a few too many 'close ones' lately, Chief."

"Yeah, I know." Blair gets two beers out of the fridge and pops the caps with the magnetic bottle opener. "You got any suggestions, I'm happy to hear 'em."

"Maybe you should be more careful."

"Me?" Blair hands him a beer and sits down on the coffee table, which he knows Jim hates. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"The time: last night. The place: the bar. The question: 'So, are you seeing anyone?' Megan and Shannon and Henri were sitting right there! And what did you say?"

"I said yes," Jim admits. "What? I don't tell them everything."

"Right. Fine. Okay. Unverifiable. The follow-up question: 'Is it serious?'"

"What, you wanted me to go fuck her?" Jim challenges.

"Make up something plausible! Don't you think the guys would know if you were practically engaged?"

"They know I don't like talking about my personal life. I didn't say anything else."

"I know, that's why they were asking me about it all night. By the way, I meant to tell you, her name's Marie, she's got curly red hair, and she works in the library. Thirty-six, twenty-nine, thirty-six. You're welcome."

Jim groans. "You had to dig us in deeper."

"No, I had to dig you in deeper."

"What if they ask to meet her?"

Blair takes a drink. "That's your problem."

"Oh, it's my problem, is it."

"Okay, so it's our problem," Blair relents. "We can't go on like this, can we?"

Jim swallows and stares out the window, at the twilight stillness. A light snowfall is dusting the balcony. "No, I guess we can't."

"It was kinda hot for awhile, but now... I guess even adrenaline gets boring. You know how much I like keeping your secrets, buddy, but I'm beginning to wonder if this one's worth it."

Jim takes a drink, but his throat is still dry. He sets the bottle carefully down on a coaster. "Something's gotta give."

"Yeah. I agree." Blair stands up and leans against the back of the armchair. "So we're agreed. We start telling people."

Jim jerks his head to stare at him. "What?"

"I mean, about us, not about the Sentinel thing, obviously. Or maybe the Sentinel thing, if you want. But definitely the us thing. The gay thing."

"Are you nuts?" Jim manages to say intelligibly. This is the opposite of what he thought Blair was going to say.

"Listen, cops aren't as unenlightened as you might think. Did you know Henri has a lesbian sister? At least, that's what he told me. It'll be okay. I know whereof I speak, I mean, I've been paying attention. I'm not _not_ doing that anthropological study of law enforcement culture. I know you're one of them, so you'd know better, probably, but, hey, look at you! I mean, talk about being open-minded about gay sex."

Jim winces, and Blair adds, "As a concept, as a concept," as if that helps.

"We can't tell people," says Jim, with a little laugh.

"Sure we can. Why not?"

"You want all the reasons, or just the summary?"

"Okay, fraternization," says Blair, providing one for him. "So maybe we don't tell Simon right away. We at least have to tell Megan. She's working with us, she already suspects we're covering up something. Maybe if we let her figure out one, she'll be so excited she'll forget about the stuff it doesn't explain. She won't tell anyone. She just wants to be included."

Jim shakes his head. "The more people know, the more dangerous it is."

"For the Sentinel thing, yeah--you don't want people getting an edge on you. This isn't exactly the same."

"Of course it is."

"What, you think I'm a liability for you?"

"That's not--"

"We're already partners, in case you've forgotten. We already live together. That's public knowledge."

"They don't know I... they don't know it's more than that. What if you got hurt because somebody wanted to get back at me?"

"Yeah, I call bullshit. Plenty of people are in law enforcement, plenty of people have dangerous enemies, and it doesn't stop them from getting involved with anyone. Cops aren't sworn to celibacy. Most 'em are married--hell, you were married once. Didn't you care if Carolyn got hurt?"

"I had fewer enemies then," Jim offers weakly, but even he knows this is barely true.

Blair shakes his head. "That's not the difference. Actually, there's only one difference between me and Carolyn."

"She's less annoying."

"She's a woman. You don't want to tell people because you don't want them to know you're gay. You're ashamed of it."

"I'm am not--and, listen, technically, I'm not gay."

"You're not?" Blair gives him a this-oughta-be-good look.

"If anything," says Jim delicately, "I'm bisexual."

"Yeah, Jim, sure. Listen, let me tell you something I've learned about being bisexual. When you're in a relationship with a man? You're gay."

"That's not what this is about," Jim insists. "I don't give a damn about that. I just--I don't want people to know that I'm--"

"Gay?"

"No--"

"Fucking a dude? Taking it up the ass?"

"No! Will you shut up about the gay thing? That's not the problem, okay?"

"Then what is?"

"Nothing. Just, listen to me for a second."

"I'm listening."

Jim paces, goes to the window, looks out. It's easier to talk to the skyline than to Blair. "You know, after Alex, after the fountain... when you came back..."

Blair says nothing, just stands frozen, like he's trying not to frighten away a butterfly. They don't talk about this much.

"I started thinking about us, you and me, like we're... I don't know... part of something. Two halves of something."

Blair nods eagerly. "I know exactly what you mean. Arguably, that's sort of what happened, right? That vision we both saw. I mean, the symbolism was definitely there."

Jim shrugs. Thinking about the vision still makes him feel unsettled. Amazed, grateful, humbled, reverent--but also highly unsettled. "I guess," he mutters, and promptly puts it out of his mind and returns to trying to articulate his original point. "It's just, every day we--do this--it's getting harder and harder for me to imagine... If I lost half of myself, I don't know..."

Blair doesn't make him finish the sentence. He just says, "Yeah, Jim. That's called love."

Jim doesn't respond. Can't. He keeps looking out the window. He feels Blair join him, stand beside him, close, but not touching.

Blair speaks mildly, without particular emotion, like he's lecturing. "Generally, people think it's worth it."

Jim nods noncommittally, and Blair nods back, equally inscrutable.

To the deck, Blair adds, haltingly, "But, if you don't..."

He trails off. The sentence hangs there.

"Forget it," says Jim suddenly. "Forget I said anything. You hit the drugstore? What'd I buy?"

  


*

Jim woke up refreshed, as if from a long sleep, on his bed in the old cell. But he wasn't chained down. The door was wide open, letting in light from the hall. The white noise generators were off, and he could hear Brackett and Alex laughing somewhere down the hall.

He got up.

"Jim!" said Brackett, raising a beer as Jim opened the door to the dining room. "Come in. Have a drink. Sorry you had to miss most of the celebration. You looked like you were getting ready to make a break for it toward the end there. But you did so well--we all did. Run and get the other case, Alex?"

Alex hopped to with a pleasant nod and brushed past Jim out to the main hallway. Brackett watched her go, cocking his head with a fond look, and then reached for a deck of cards.

"Where's Stromwell?" Jim asked.

Brackett dealt piles of cards, five each, for himself and for Jim. "I left him wrapped in a neat little bow on the doorstep of the local police department. Along with a goody bag of assorted evidence, of course--a couple of disks' worth of electronic paper trail and some nicely fingerprinted weaponry."

"You expect me to believe that? You just turned him over?"

"Of course! What else would I do with him? They can take care of him now we've done the hard part."

"You've got your own jail right here," Jim pointed out.

"Oh, I wouldn't lock up a normal person here. Sensory deprivation is a powerful tool, and I don't intend to exploit it. For you and Alex, it's cleansing experience. It heightens your senses into their purest form. It improves you. A normal person would just go insane."

Jim supposed it was a bad sign that he found himself respecting Brackett for his morality. Still, he found himself unwilling to go back to the solitude of his cell. He sat down in a chair and picked up his cards. An ace, a nine, a seven, a pair of twos.

They threw in nacho chips for ante. "How're you feeling?" Brackett asked.

"Good. Fine." Jim raised him four chips.

"I'm pleased with a good night's work, I have to tell you."

Jim nodded. "Alex is a good fighter."

"She's wonderful," Brackett agreed, his mouth curling into what seemed like an unplanned, unconscious smile of affection. "She's a brilliant specimen of this human race, isn't she--beautiful and strong. She's an utter goddess."

"Uh-huh. Got a little thing for her, huh?"

Brackett's superior expression somehow managed to make this speculation seem ridiculous. "It isn't like that."

Jim shrugged. He knew how "not like that" could be. And while he wasn't about to call Alex the world's greatest human, he could see the appeal, especially now that she seemed to have a purpose and a goal other than random chaos. He offered, "She certainly seems much... uh... saner than the last time I saw her."

Brackett beamed with pride. "She just needed focus."

"Call it."

"Full house."

"Hey," said Jim suddenly, his hand on the chips. "I get it. You're her guide."

Brackett drained the last of his beer and reached for the deck to shuffle. When he looked at Jim again, it was with concern. "You do know that's not real, right?"

"What?"

"The Guide," he said in a fake spooky voice. "The mystical role of the shaman. I know from Mr. Sandburg's notes that he favors that mythology, but it's just that. Mythical."

Jim felt shaky, as though he were rocking on the deck of a boat. He searched for a suitable Blair-style response. "Myths can... tell us... things."

"Yes. They can tell us about our fantasies. It's a mistake to confuse them for fact. Wishful thinking. Our lives aren't controlled by spirits and gods. The only driving force on this earth is humanity. Isn't that powerful enough? I'm not mystical, and neither is your Blair."

Jim shifted in his chair and rubbed his neck. "I never said you were."

"I know. I'm telling you pre-emptively. I know I'm starting to gain your trust, and I don't want to see you fall into bad habits."

"You're not gaining my trust," said Jim automatically.

"You should trust me. I'm being straight with you. I'm not trying to fool you with stories or daydreams. I know I've done some things you don't find pleasant. But it's all in your best interest. I want you in top condition. That's in my best interest. And I want us to launch a new nation together--that is in the world's best interest."

"You keep saying that," said Jim. "What do you mean--new nation?"

"I mean just that. The vanguard of the new humanity. You see, I take the opposite view from your friend Sandburg. I don't think you represent a throwback. I think you represent the future."

"Destiny?" said Jim. "That sounds like mysticism to me."

"Not destiny. Evolution. A random advantageous mutation, the first of many, I hope. Of course, it's only meaningful if you choose to cultivate it."

"What do you mean?"

Brackett quirked an eyebrow at Jim before reshuffling the cards. "She is a very beautiful woman."

It took a moment for Jim to get it, and when he did, he rolled his eyes and stood up. "Okay. I'm going back to my cell."

"I know, I know," Brackett said, throwing up his arms in frustration. "Blair Sandburg again. How much damage of his do I have to undo? You're not homosexual."

Jim's face burned. Deny, deny, deny, he thought wildly. "Wh...I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play coy with me. It's no use pretending."

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. He was rescued from having to answer by the return of Alex. She strode into the room, wine bottle and empty glasses extended toward Brackett.

"What happened to you?" she asked shortly, glancing at Jim.

"I told him something he didn't want to hear," Brackett told her, then turned back to Jim. " I know everything about you, Jim. I know you've gotten awfully close with this partner of yours. You've been having some confusing thoughts lately, haven't you?"

Jim was surprised by the tameness of the accusation. This he could cop to. Why not? Almost immediately he said, "Well--I guess. Yeah, maybe."

Brackett's eyes widened briefly. He was actually surprised. Jim wasn't sure he'd actually ever seen him surprised.

Alex laughed out loud. "I told you. I told you they were fucking."

Jim swayed dizzily.

"I'm sorry," said Brackett, barely hiding a smile. This was a joke to him. "I shouldn't have doubted your perception."

"I could tell when I was with you," Alex said smugly. "He was so jealous of me."

"That's exactly my point. He was jealous because you wanted her," Brackett told Jim matter-of-factly. He'd gotten his poise back, and he poured out a glass of wine as if this was the most normal conversation in the world. "And you wanted her because you're designed to. Like genetic advantages attract."

Brackett handed out the glass, and Jim took it, confused. "I'm not sure what you're saying."

"I'm saying it doesn't make sense for you to be a homosexual. It's simply evolutionarily disadvantageous. How did he convince you? Did he wear you down? It must have taken some time. I know your record. I know your life. There is no other evidence of this supposed alternative sexuality. You were married."

"I... that didn't work out," Jim pointed out. He wasn't sure which side he should be arguing, here.

"Because you're gay?" Brackett snorted. "Is that what you thought at the time? I don't think so. That's just what he wants you to think. He told you stories, didn't he, about your fated love. Destined by the gods. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you you were tricked. You don't have a guide. You have a horny bisexual roommate."

The wine rippled in the glass, shaken by Jim's trembling fingers. He could hardly focus his eyes. Could hardly parse what was being said.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Brackett was saying gently, in slow motion. "It's not your fault."

All of a sudden, and to his surprise, Jim understood that he wasn't ashamed. That was not the emotion he was experiencing.

Lee stepped close, looking into Jim's eyes with every appearance of concern. He carefully removed the glass from Jim's fingers before it fell and placed it down safely on the table. "Help me, Jim. Help me help you."

"You really want to help me?" Jim asked faintly.

"Let me be your partner now, Jim." His voice was barely more than a whisper. With a gentle push he directed Jim's face toward his own. His eyes were wide and sincere. "Let me guide you."

Jim's fist connected with Brackett's nose with a satisfying crunch. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"Fuck off and die," said Jim eloquently.

And then he was on the ground, too, Alex on top of him.

*

Blair's hand is warm and gentle on the back of Jim's neck. "Okay. Deep breaths, sweetie."

Jim wrenches away suddenly and looks around. They're only a few feet into the brush, still clearly visible from the clump of parked police cars, the uniforms filling out paperwork, the crying wife.

"Get off! Are you _trying_ to get me fired?"

Blair juts his lip doggedly. "I'm trying to help."

"You want to help me, Sandburg, leave me the fuck alone!"

*

Sounds of metal clanking against metal. A sense of vertigo, of being moved. He was being lifted, moved upright. Tightness around his wrists. Cuffed. He was cuffed to a chair. Alex. Her flower scent, mixed with the smell of her sweat. There were only two heartbeats in the room, two sets of breath--Alex's and Jim's. They were alone, and somehow, that scared him more than two against one. Alex was off the leash.

There was no light in the room. None whatever. Even the video camera was gone.

Somehow Alex seemed perfectly able to see. Without faltering, she took Jim's chin in her head and pushed his head back against the metal bar of the chair, and shoved what tasted like a metal pipe into his open mouth. It tasted dirty and tinny. He tried to move his head, but his reactions were slow, and Alex grabbed his face in a vice grip. He retched, struggled, but he was still tied, and Alex seemed to have full control of her strength, which was more than Jim could say.

Without warning a cold rush of water hit the back of his throat. Jim tried to gasp, tried to take a breath, convulsed uselessly. His chest hurt, his throat hurt, his heart beat wildly. The stream of water was endless. She's drowning me, he realized; I'm going to die. This is how I die. How long could he go without breath? His vision began to black. He remembered the cold press of Blair's lips, the deep horrifying beautiful hacking cough as he sputtered up water. Who would breathe life back into Jim?

Suddenly the water ended, and Jim could breathe, drawing in sweet deep breaths through the pipe. His chest and throat still hurt, but oxygen was so wonderful that he didn't care. Then the pipe was gone, and he panted deeper still, ignoring the pain in his throat.

"Well?" she asked sweetly. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," he gritted, his voice hoarse.

"Still thirsty?"

He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd gotten to him, but when she put her hand back on his face, steadying him again, preparing him again, he gasped, and his heart sped with fear. She heard this, of course. She laughed.

"What do you want?" he said. "You want to know about the sixth sense?" It's not breaking under torture if he makes something up.

"Sixth sense?" She made a scornful noise. "I don't believe in it."

"Then what do you want?"

"Me? Not a thing. I've got everything I need."

This time, Jim tried to close his throat, but it was impossible to dam the torrent. The water forced its way past his defenses. This is how I die, he thought. He knew she'd probably stop short of killing him, again, but he still panicked; he couldn't not panic. This is how I die. This is how he died.

His lungs ached. His vision blurred. Thought was too heavy.

*

It's strange. Blair was only in the hospital two days, most of which Jim spent tracking Alex, picking up her trail in Peru, and making travel arrangements, when he wasn't sitting in the uncomfortable chair by Blair's bed, alternately dozing and yelling at doctors. Yet when he brings Blair home, it feels like inviting in a guest. He finds himself opening Blair's bedroom door for him, as if showing him the room, and giving him a pile of fresh towels before he goes into the bathroom to wash off the hospital smell.

Maybe it's because Blair's stuff is all out of place, and much neater than he ever would have left it. Jim had to unpack it all in a rush when he got over his Alex-induced territorial temporary insanity.

Or maybe it's because, in some indefinable way, everything is different. There's no reason to think Blair won't be just the same, here in this second chance at life. But there's no reason to think he will, either.

It occurs to Jim suddenly that he's been standing in the kitchen, fiddling with Blair's hospital bracelet, rolling the smooth plastic between his fingers, and listening to the water rain down out of the shower for a few minutes now, and he has yet to hear Blair get in, scrub up, or sing raucously. He crosses through to the hall and throws open the door without stopping to think that he might walk in on him less dressed than a roommate is supposed to see.

He doesn't, as it turns out. Blair is standing on the bath rug, barefoot, shirt off, pants on, staring at the rushing water as steam clouds around him. His face is pale, brows knit, eyes fixed on the stream.

"Blair."

No answer. It's as if he's zoned.

Jim pushes up his sleeve, leans into the shower, and turns off the water.

Blair blinks and shakes his head. "Sorry." He shoots Jim a bashful little smile. "Dumb, huh? I gotta get over that. Guy who doesn't bathe is a bad roommate for a Sentinel."

"It's okay," says Jim uncertainly, shaking his arm into the tub. "Totally understandable. It's like you're always saying. Sense memory. The brain... Uh, stimuli."

Blair laughs a little. Jim's never been so relieved to see Blair's eyes crinkle and his cheekbones go round the way they do when he smiles.

"You want to maybe try again later?" Jim suggests. "Jeopardy! is on." Jim thinks Jeopardy! is dead boring, but Blair likes it because he knows all the answers.

"No, I'm all sweaty and disgusting. I mean, even I'm grossed out, and I don't have your sense of smell."

"You're okay." He heads off "You smell like you" and "I kind of like it" at the pass-these are weird things to say, even to your best friend whom you are thoroughly and sentimentally happy to see alive. Instead he shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. "I don't really care."

"It's ridiculous," says Blair, not looking at him, but since he's continuing to talk, Jim doesn't leave. "I can't be afraid of water. Seventy-five per cent of the Earth. It's eighty per cent of humans! I can't be afraid of eighty per cent of myself."

"Well, then, I guess you'll have face it," says Jim.

Blair nods. "Yeah. I'm being stupid."

"No, you're not." Jim suddenly feels creative. He steps into the tub.

Blair's smile is puzzled, but he doesn't say anything.

"Come on. I've got your back." Jim holds out his hand, and Blair takes it and obligingly climbs in.

Blair looks critical, but all he says is, "You're gonna get those clothes wet."

"They'll survive."

Blair nods and puts his hand on the lever. "Ready?"

"If you are."

Jim is the one standing directly in the stream of water when it hits, ice-cold and then quickly steamy. His shirt's immediately soaked and clinging to him. Blair, protected from all but the splashback by his strategic position directly underneath the showerhead, watches him, grinning. Jim grins back, brushing water out of his eyes.

"This is dumb," Blair announces. "Why are we doing this?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Jim laughs. "Did it work? You want me to go so you can take an actual shower?"

"I dunno, man, watching somebody get slammed with water is a tried-and-true comedy staple, and laughter is the best medicine, so..." Blair flicks water at him.

"Hey!"

They splash each other and Jim, deciding it's way past time Blair got his hair wet, pulls him into the stream of water. Blair's not expecting it and he laughs and sputters a little.

And maybe it's getting water up his nose that does it, but suddenly he's gasping, wide-eyed, chest rocking in tight, quick heaves, like he can't get enough breath.

"You're okay, you're okay," Jim tells him. He pulls Blair back a step so he's not directly in the path of the water, but he's still panicking. "Easy, in, out," he says, trying for Blair's relaxation-breath voice, but when it doesn't work, he does the next thing that comes into his head. He takes Blair's wet face in his hands, bends. Blair suddenly blinks and makes eye contact just as Jim presses his mouth to Blair's.

Blair's breathing relaxes almost instantly. Jim can feel his chest expand as he inhales deeply through his nose. Warm hands press his cold, clinging shirt to his back. Jim's arms are going around Blair, too. Without his thinking about it, he crosses his arms around Blair's wet, bare back.

The kiss ends gently, and Blair immediately presses his face sidelong against Jim's, so Jim can't see his expression. But he thinks the reaction is good, because Blair is still clinging to him, handfuls of wet shirt tight in his hands. Jim holds him with force, fervency, trying to show Blair that he's safe, that Jim's not about to let him go.

"Thought you weren't ready to take this trip," Blair murmurs finally, a considerately quiet whisper near his ear.

"I'm not," Jim says with a little laugh. "Not at all ready." But he belies his words by turning his face into Blair's neck, inhaling deeply, kissing the soft skin beneath his ear.

"Mmm..." Blair's hands come up around to Jim's chest, and he begins undoing the buttons. Jim's breath catches in his throat, but he doesn't stop him. "It's not easy for me, either, you know." Blair lifts his eyes to Jim's. "Believing that we're meant to be."

"We're meant to be," Jim repeats, trying out the words.

"I know. I don't know how I know, but I know. I mean, I'm supposed to be a man of science, here. If I believe in fate, that kind of undermines my whole line of work."

"Mine too," says Jim. "I'm supposed to explain things. I don't know how to explain this."

"Neither do I." Blair smiles. "Guess we're both facing our fears, huh?"

They kiss slow and gentle, water still raining against Jim's hands, Blair's back. Blair's hands work their way down to the buttons at Jim's belt, and he pauses, placing his hands inside Jim's shirt, against his stomach. "The trick with negative stimuli," he whispers, "is to give them positive associations."

*

Still unable to surface, still blubbering under the steady stream of water, Jim suddenly felt a surge of hope, of peace.

He wasn't sure what he noticed first-the sound of Blair's heart, the smell of his hair, the characteristic light cat step in heavy hiking boots, but he knew with absolute certainty that Blair was there with him long before the intercom crackled and Blair's voice cried out, "Jim, it's-"

That was all he got out. There was a muffled thump, and the intercom fell silent.

Both Jim and Alex froze, staring at the intercom. Alex was the first to break the silence, a wide smile brightening her face. "Can you smell his fear?"

"Let him go," said Jim. His voice was thin and scratchy but he did his best to sound firm.

"After he walked so nicely into my web?" That was Brackett's voice, flooding the intercom. Blair's heartbeat was dimly audible. He was alive. Unconscious, but alive. For now.

"You don't need him. He's nothing, right? Just a normal," said Jim desperately. "I'm the one you want."

"He controls you. I accept that now." The intercom cut off again.

"Wonderful smell, isn't it?" Alex rattled on rapturously. "I'd like to bottle it. I would take it out whenever I felt sad and smile a little. I hope Lee lets me kill him again."

She stood up, still smiling, and more or less danced out of the room. Jim lay in the darkness for-who knew how long-Jim was no longer counting. Minutes. An hour.

Then, "Well!" Brackett's voice boomed from the doorway. Jim turned his head with effort. Light streamed in from the hallway, silhouetting Brackett and Alex. "This was some unexpected luck."

"If you really just wanted to kill him, you would have shot him on sight," said Jim. "What do you want from me?"

"You know what I want. Only problem is, I don't believe you know anything. Nothing useful, anyway. All that information is locked up inside Mr. Sandburg's brain-that and more. I don't believe he's put down on paper half of what he knows about your abilities--particularly considering his, ah, unlimited access. He'll be ready to talk in, oh, a day or so, I imagine. Without your peculiar abilities, the sensory deprivation will be complete. Most people break within the first three hours."

"Tell me what you want to know," Jim begged. He found he was not ashamed to beg. Not when it was Blair's life, Blair's sanity, on the line. He could barely handle the deprivation chamber; what would it be like for Blair, who had normal senses, who got lonely if Jim took too long getting the mail?

"Wonderful!" Brackett crossed the cell and stood in front of him, looking down at him, smiling paternally. "I knew this was a good plan. You see, capturing Mr. Sandburg serves a double purpose. He is a source of information. And he is a source of power. Your source of power. You would do anything for him, wouldn't you? Well. This is wonderful news. You are such loyal creatures."

Jim narrowed his eyes. Brackett was nuts if he thought that loyalty--his love--for Blair could ever be redirected towards himself. Instantly he realized that apparent submission is his best tactic. He turned his head to the side tragically. Letting his voice break a bit--which wasn't difficult under the circumstances--he said, "Please. I'll tell you anything."

"He doesn't know anything," said Alex.

"You know what I want to know," said Brackett gently. "What is the sixth sense?"

"That's still what you want?" Jim was genuinely surprised. "I thought you didn't..."

"There's no such thing!" Alex burst out, doing his work for him.

Now Brackett was confused. "Then what were you interrogating him for?"

"Kicks," Jim supplied. And he kicked.

It was girl move, kicking Alex between the legs, and he didn't expect it to hurt her as much as it would have hurt a man, but she doubled over immediately, winded, tears clinging to her eyes.

But Alex wasn't like a normal woman. She was a Sentinel. And apparently, she was a Sentinel who had never learned to manage her pain. Brackett was no Blair. He hadn't taught her the dials. Jim laughed out loud and took advantage of her weakened state to kick her again, in the gut this time. She sank to her knees.

Brackett gaped at him. It was only a moment before he remembered he had a gun and drew it. Jim had no plan.

He decided to improvise.

He planted his feet on the ground. There was no room for error here. He couldn't cut himself any slack for his weakness and sleep deprivation. Mustering every ounce of strength and coordination, he stood up.

Still bound to the chair, he bent over as he straightened his legs. Standing was only possible, sort of, because he had strong arms and a determination to ignore the pain in his wrists as he held the chair up. Awkwardly, slowly, like a baby colt standing for the first time, he got to his feet. Brackett goggled at him.

Jim took a lumbering step toward him.

Brackett recovered his wits and aimed his gun.

Jim whipped around, sweeping Brackett's legs with the legs of his chair. The gun clattered to the ground.

Jim dove for it. So did Alex. She had the distinct advantage of being unhandcuffed, and grabbed it. Jim was immediately on top of her, with the chair on top of him, and they struggled beneath it. Jim didn't have much hand movement available to him with the short chain of the cuffs, but he was able to elbow her hard in the ribs. Alex yelped and wept with pain, but didn't give up the gun; she did, however, bring it close enough to Jim's hand that he was able to catch her hand tight in his, bracing himself against the floor with the other hand. She tried to shake him off, but he was determined not to let go of his meager advantage. The gun went off into the ceiling.

Brackett came up behind them and yanked at the legs of the chair, trying to pull Jim off Alex without getting too close to the dogfight.

Jim gave up forcing Alex's hand off the gun and instead tried to bend it toward Brackett. She realized what he was doing, screamed, and bit his ear. Jim wasn't prepared for this and the pain was excruciating for a moment, before he hastily dialed down. He squeezed Alex's hands, forcing her to release four more blind rounds into the wall.

In the fire, Brackett dove into the hall for cover. Well, that was one way to get rid of an opponent.

Alex yanked herself finally out from under him. He was left lying on his face, still chained to the chair that pinned him down, while she stood, training the gun on him.

"Come on, Alex," said Jim, very carefully, very slowly, bracing himself up on his hands and knees. "You and I both know that gun is spent. You're out of rounds."

Alex shook her head. "You can't know that."

"Of course I can. I can hear it. The air in the chambers. Can't you hear it?"

Alex flicked her eyes to the gun and back to Jim. She looked suspicious. But then he could see her do it. He could see her eyes unfocus as she listened, hard. She was zoned, listening to the gun.

Now or never. Jim threw himself sideways, plunging one of the legs of the chair into her gut, dragging her down with it. She yelped in surprise but couldn't get her balance quickly enough. It worked better, worse, than he ever hoped: he heard her head crunch sickeningly on the cinderblock floor, and she was still.

He panted, lying sideways on the ground. The chair suddenly feels immensely heavy, and the work of getting up is entirely beyond him. Now what's his plan? Alex could come to, or Brackett could come back, at any time, and he was just lying here for the taking.

He found himself staring at something shiny on the ground, halfway across the room. A nail file. Must have fallen out of her pocket in the struggle. All he had to do was get close enough to grab it and he was free. But how to move? He shifted, trying to shimmy along the ground, but all he got for his efforts was a scraped arm. He stared hopelessly at the nail file. The cell was tiny but the trek across it impossibly long.

Jim lay still and listened for any sign of Blair, of how he was doing, but there was nothing. The silence was pointed, meaningful. Like an insult. By now he was more or less used to this, but for Blair...

Jim gritted his teeth and braced himself with his hand on the floor. "Hang on, Chief."

*

"Hey, it's Blair and you've reached my voicemail. I guess I'm not around right now, so, you know, if the spirit moves you, you can..."

"Goddammit!" Jim throws the cell phone onto the seat next to him, then immediately picks it up again and redials the loft. "Pick up, pick up, pick up..."

His own gruff voice, sounding irritated, delivers the utilitarian message, "Leave a message for Ellison or Sandburg."

"Goddamn curmudgeonly bastard," Jim curses himself, and hangs up before the beep. What's he going to say to the machine? "Hi Blair, it's me. Please call me back right away so I know you're not lying dead in an alley. I know I do this whenever you're fifteen minutes late, but you don't understand; this time, there's a specific alley."

He imagines himself playing back that message two days later, dressed in black.

He can still hear the clueless uniform rattling off the description from the anonymous tip line: White, gender undetermined, plaid coat, dark curly hair. As if it's nobody special. As if it could mean anybody. Please, let it mean anybody else.

He's got to hear Blair's voice. Got to hear it now. With one hand, he jams in the university main number, dials "1" for known extension, and punches in the extension for anthropology, barely avoiding trees and telephone poles.

"Hello, art department. Can I help--"

He jabs the button to end the call, drops the phone, and careens to a stop outside the alley.

*

Catching what sounded like a heartbeat, Jim froze, but it faded away as suddenly as it had come. The hallway was oppressively silent.

He turned around and jogged five paces in the opposite direction, keeping his ear trained, but nothing came. A white noise generator whirred quielty on the floor next to him, and he picked it up and threw it to the ground, smashing it.

There. There it was. Faint and slow, so slow, but definitely Blair. There was no other sound of movement. Jim didn't want to think about what this might mean.

The sound was just on the other side of the door. "Blair, it's me, I'm here!" he shouted, even though Blair probably couldn't hear a thing. He scrabbled in his pockets for the key card from Alex's body, dropped it, picked it up, missed the slot, got it in. The door unlatched and Jim threw it open.

Blair was sitting upright in the middle of the room, legs folded. He opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the light.

Alive and well. His heart immediately quickened to a normal speed. Jim didn't so much walk or run to him as slide on his knees, enveloping him instantly in a close hug.

"Blair. Blair." Jim kissed his face, forehead, ear, next to his eyes. He found himself laughing like a lunatic. "Are you real?"

"Definitely!" said Blair brightly, his hands tight and comforting on Jim's back. "I knew you'd come sooner or later. I was just meditating."

Jim buried his face in Blair's neck and inhaled him and inhaled him.

"Jim--hey, Jim--snap out of it, man, someone's--"

*

The smell of rained-on garbage is overpowering and it's impossible to pick out the body's scent, even if a dead Sandburg would smell the same as a live Sandburg anyway, which Jim doesn't want to think about. He catches sight of the green plaid, runs for it, skids to a kneeling position by its side.

The relief starts blossoming in his mind as soon as he gets in close enough range to see the heave of breath, the unfamiliar pattern of plaid, the feminine width of the hips. He grabs her shoulder just to make sure.

The woman's eyes flutter open and her face immediately twists with rage. "What do you want? I got a knife!"

"Sorry, Ma'am. Just, uh..." Unable to think of good explanation, Jim flashes his badge to stall for time.

"Fuck the police! I voted for Satan!"

Jim rocks back on his haunches and lets himself exhale deeply, his breath shaky and ragged. He has never been so glad to see a homeless woman.

Something hits him roughly on the back of the head.

*

Jim whirled around and grabbed the wrist that was reaching toward him.

"Hey, Jim!" Henri grinned. He spoke into his radio, "We got him, I got 'em both," then to Jim, "You okay?"

Jim relaxed. "Uh, yeah... fine." He felt light-headed from all the sudden changes in heart rate.

"Come on." Blair scrambled to his feet, and he and Henri both reached for Jim's arms, pulling him up.

Down the hall, voices and sirens echoed. "This is the police... you're surrounded..."

"You came with backup," Jim noted.

Blair grinned. "I learned from the best."

*

"I used your methods!"

"My methods?" Jim couldn't remember being more tired, but Blair was bouncing frenetically, never letting his hands go still. He played with the handle of the ambulance door, with his jacket, with a pebble from the ground. Jim sat calmly in the doorway of the truck, wrist in his lap hooked up to a bag of fluid. From a few feet away, Simon watched them from the corner of his eye.

"Senses!" Blair exclaimed, flinging out his arms and smiling at the sky.

He was overjoyed, Jim realized, to have the world back. Things to see, hear, touch. He was only in deprivation for maybe twenty minutes, but for Blair, that was enough.

"I mean, I couldn't do it myself-I had to borrow an experimental super-sensitive microphone from the AV lab. But once I found the bug, I knew two things, because I remembered it was the kind Brackett used-so I knew it was him, and I knew he was listening to me. I didn't get rid of it, cause I thought it'd be more useful to use it, so when Simon and everyone came over to check the place out, I pulled him into the living room, and I said, 'I'm really worried, Jim doesn't know how to control his sixth sense,' and I knew Brackett wouldn't be able to resist that."

"That explains a lot," said Jim.

"Yeah. Sorry. I would have let you in on it if I could. Anyway, I waited for him to come make a play for my notes-he knew there was nothing useful on my computer, I guess-only I wasn't there, I was out in the truck staking the place out. Then I just followed him."

"You're smart," said Jim.

"I know," Blair beamed. "It sucks, though! I really wanted to be the one to save you, for once. But of course, I go and get shoved in a cell and you come and save me anyway. I can't believe you were in there for almost thirty hours."

"Almost thirty--is that all? Christ. It felt like-"

"Like what?" Blair asked, fixing Jim with his intense tell-me-everything-even-the-tiniest-detail-may-be-of-consequence face.

"It's hard to say. At least a month."

"Are you--I mean--you're really okay? You don't have to pretend."

"I'm really okay," Jim promised. "A few scrapes and bruises, mostly self-inflicted. They barely touched me."

"No, but the sensory deprivation stuff. That's real torture, you know, CIA stuff-hey, wonder how he learned it, right? But, I mean, with your senses, the level of stimulation you're used to--God, I can't imagine." Blair sat down beside Jim. His hand moved as if to take Jim's arm, but then he looked at the IV and stopped, putting his hand back in his own lap. "How did you handle it?" His voice was soft, and Jim knew he wasn't asking as a scientist.

"Well. You know. I was thinking about you."

Blair half-smiled, confused. Jim wondered if he understood that this was not a non-sequitur but an explanation. To make it clear, he wrapped an arm around Blair and pulled him close, closed his eyes, and rested his head on top of Blair's.

Blair laughed, surprise and relief and nervousness. He wriggled, trying not very hard to shake off Jim's grasp. "What are you doing? Everyone's looking."

"Let 'em," said Jim. "We're fucking beautiful."

  


**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this story in 2008, the news was full of reports about CIA involvement in torture, including sensory deprivation, sleep deprivation, and waterboarding. I also remember being particularly influenced by the great, eerie segment on Eastern State Penitentiary from the [Radio Lab](http://www.radiolab.org/) episode ["Morality"](http://www.radiolab.org/2007/aug/13/).
> 
> After writing the sensory dep and most of the flashbacks--you know, everything but the _plot_ \--I got sidetracked by real life followed by Due South and let this lie half-finished for over a year. Finally I got it done for [The Sentinel Big Bang 2010](http://community.livejournal.com/sentinelbigbang/). I owe many people thanks.
> 
> [Alynt](http://alynt.livejournal.com) created the art that appears throughout ([here's the post to view the art and leave fb](http://alynt.livejournal.com/15583.html)); she also very kindly agreed to beta, going above and beyond the call of artistly duty!
> 
> [Mab Browne](http://mab-browne.dreamwidth.org/) was my cheerleader and also beta'd both my outline and a final version of the story. She also visited me in New York City from New Zealand during the period of the challenge, surely for no other reason than because she is just that amazing of a cheerleader.
> 
> [Morgan Briarwood](http://briarwood.livejournal.com/) ran the challenge and herded us authors and artists like the wayward, deadline-resistant cats we are. (Speaking for myself, anyway.)
> 
> Finally, my frequent beta and partner in crime **Yolsaffbridge** gave me advice, ideas, and beta at many stages.
> 
> Thank you everyone.


End file.
